You Do Hear The One That Gets Away
by Zacheriah
Summary: Episode tag to 'You Don't Hear The One That Gets You.' Mark isn't doing too well when he gets back from Arizona and things can only get worse before they get better. Part 9 up
1. Chapter 1

Author's note:- Now don't get me wrong I don't hate plot bunnies per se I just hate the kind that won't allow you to get on with any other stories until you've written them down i.e. plot bunnies that leap all over the other bunnies, stamping them into submission. This story is one of those. I'm blaming Sarah again. When I told her I was writing a tag to the episode where Mark becomes a race car driver she asked eagerly. Which one? And I was doomed to write one for both from that second on. Anyway, before this note becomes longer than the story, I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. The story will be around 3 parts. 

Episode tag to **You Don't Hear The One That Gets You. **And therefore major spoilers for that episode.

Disclaimer: This story is written as an homage to the excellent writers and producers of a show which I love in the hope that the copyright owners will not mind.

Warnings:- In later chapters I will be stepping up Melissa's sexual harassment of Mark but there will be nothing graphic.

**You Do Hear The One That Gets Away**

Judge Milton C. Hardcastle stood at the window and watched despairingly. He kept in the shadows, because he didn't think letting McCormick see how worried he was would help at the moment. It might just make the young man shut down even more than he had been already, and that was already too much, way too much. Not that the judge didn't understand, that was part of the problem, the judge understood all too well what the kid was going through, but nothing he could do or say could make a damn bit of difference to it.

The kid didn't seem to be able to catch a break in life, and even when he did the baseball boot of fate always seemed to be around to kick him in the teeth, and take it all away from him, and yet he always bounced back, with a resilience that was refreshing, showing an underlying optimism that was infectious. Even when life was nailing him to the floor, he seemed to be able to pick himself up, dust himself off and get on with it. The Judge realised now that that was why this whole crazy scheme of his was working, the reason why McCormick had been the perfect choice, probably the only man that could have made his mission truly work, because he never quit, always believed that there was something better, and that it was worth fighting for. It was that spirit that had drawn him to the young man and he'd never regretted it, didn't regret it now, but he did know that he had a problem, a serious problem, because McCormick wasn't bouncing back this time, hell he was barely functioning, and he was sick. Physically there was a problem as well as mentally, and the worse thing about the whole situation was that the Judge knew exactly what was wrong but had no clue how to help him, although it was becoming increasingly clear that one of the things he was going to have to do was call a doctor, no matter how much the kid protested.

The problems had started with one of the best things that had happened to McCormick in his life, he'd won a race, more than that he'd won twenty thousand dollars, a kings ransom as far as McCormick was concerned and certainly more money than he'd ever expected to have in one place at one time, but he'd deserved it. He was good- damned good, and, but for the bad breaks life, and his own decisions, had dealt him, there was no doubt in Hardcastle's mind that he could have been a professional driver, a very successful one, but he'd never been lucky, at least not usually in a good sense, and he was prone to following his heart rather than his head.

Nonetheless his bad luck this time had nothing to do with his actions, he'd been targeted by two small time crooks who'd stolen his money, his car and his dreams, and then they'd tried to kill him, shooting him in the shoulder before leaving them stranded in the middle of the Arizona desert. They'd been lucky not to get killed, but it was the only piece of good luck they'd had. McCormick had insisted on going after them without proper rest or medication, not giving his shoulder a chance to heal, probably part of the problem now. Eventually the people responsible had been stopped, two killed and one taken into custody, but they hadn't recovered the money. McCormick had had to stand there and watch his money, and his dreams go up in smoke, and Hardcastle had had to stand there and watch the kid watch, and if McCormick felt half as bad as he had. . .

He shook his head again, somehow they had to get through this, but the kid wasn't helping himself. For the past five days, since they'd got back he hadn't been eating properly, and the dark circles under his eyes attested to the fact that he sure as hell hadn't been sleeping properly either. Finally there was his shoulder, that wasn't healing like it should. Not that surprising given the lack of food and sleep, but there was more than that, if anything it seemed to be a little worse now. It had looked a little inflamed last night when the Judge had changed the dressing, and he'd wanted to call the doctor there and then, but McCormick had balked, pleading that he was too tired, and that wasn't a hard sell, at the moment he looked permanently tired.

This morning he'd been avoiding Hardcastle, something he was reasonably adept at when he wanted to be, especially since the Judge was trying not to make his concern too obvious. When he'd finally pinned him down he'd claimed to be feeling better, and to prove it he was now out by the pool struggling to skim it virtually one handed, struggling to hide the grimaces when he was forced to use his other arm to steady something, because despite the Judge's care not to be seen hovering, McCormick was putting on an act, just in case.

When it happened it was almost like slow motion. McCormick bent into a half kneel to pick something out of the water and, as he leaned forward for it, he just didn't stop, falling forward and into the pool with a gentle splash. The judge froze in his position for just a moment as his brain processed the implications, and then, with no real conscious thought to guide the actions, he was running for the doors, telling himself that it was OK, the kid could swim well, he was just going to be wet and as embarrassed as Hell when the Judge got out there, but there was no splashing, no sounds of someone swimming or climbing out of the pool, no sound at all.

The sight of McCormick floating face down in the water almost made Hardcastle's heart stop. It certainly seemed to skip a beat before it thundered on at twice the speed and his gut twisted with painful alacrity. He barely had time to acknowledge the physical sensations, however, before he was jumping into the water and scrambling to grab the floating form. Turning him over, as he pulled him to the shallow end. "Come on McCormick wake up," he spluttered desperately as his brain tried to process just how long he'd been under for, a few seconds, thirty at most, that was survivable, as long as he got him out, as long as he got him breathing.

Every scrambling move seemed to take forever as he fought to get himself and the inert form onto the side of the pool, counting the seconds in his head, looking desperately at the slack features of his friend for any sign that he was still with him. There were none.

He can't die not like this, not like this. He just can't die, the mantra repeated in his head a continuous background to his other thoughts.

It was so quick, so senseless, so utterly avoidable, if only he hadn't been sidestepping around the kid's feelings, giving him the space he thought he needed. If only he'd trusted his instincts and called the doctor last night, or even this morning.

Dammit, he was not going to die.

They were on the side now and Hardcastle was breathing heavily from the physical exertion but he didn't have time to recover. He drew in a deep breath and blew into McCormick's mouth, checking for a pulse as he straightened up, nothing, he tried a few chest compressions, counting as he did so then blew in another breath. It took two more repeats of the process before McCormick, coughed weakly and Hardcastle lifted and turned him as he coughed a stream of water from his lungs. Thank God! "That's it McCormick, cough it up," He encouraged, rubbing the younger man's back as he supported him, eventually the coughing fit seemed to be over and Hardcastle turned him back gently, looking carefully at his face for some form of awareness.

Mark struggled to process anything, he couldn't process how he was feeling beyond awful. He was weak, just opening his eyes, or sucking in a rattling breath of air physically hurt, and his shoulder was on fire. He was vaguely aware that he was lying down and that he was wet, fully clothed but wet, why would I be. . . ? The thought didn't get beyond that, as the fuzzy noise that had been buzzing for the last few seconds finally resolved into words.

"McCormick?" The edge of concern was clear even in the Judge's breathless tones. "McCormick are you back with me?"

Mark forced his eyes fully open and blinked as the fuzzy image of a dripping wet Hardcastle finally resolved into view. The older man was red faced, and concern was etched into every line of his features. "I. ." He tried to speak, tried to answer but the effort brought on another coughing fit and then worse. Hands gripped him firmly and helped to lift and turn him once again as he vomited what little was in his stomach, with painful heaves. Eventually the sensations settled and he felt himself being gently lowered again. He took in a couple of cautious breaths before he looked up again. "Thanks," he said, then added a "sorry," because he was sure he had something to apologise for, although at the moment he still wasn't sure what; he was a little fuzzy on the details of how he'd ended up in this position. "What happened?"

"You decided to take a swim without the aid of consciousness," the Judge stated, not fully able to hide the fear behind the statement.

"Oh," was all Mark could manage in reply. He tried to form his memories into some sort of coherent sequence. "Oh," he stated again, because that's all the confused jumble would allow him.

Hardcastle studied the still semi-confused expression on the younger man's face, the slight glassy look in his eyes, and he suppressed the boiling anger borne of frustration. Of all the stupid, idiotic, sometimes premeditated things McCormick had done in the last two years, nearly getting himself killed because he was too stubborn to admit that he was sick had to be the stupidest. He could feel the accompanying lecture building, but with effort he dismissed it. The kid wasn't thinking straight at the moment, and he had enough reason, but dammit he needed to snap out of it. They needed to get back to normal and. . .and that was exactly what McCormick was trying to do, skimming the pool, a normal everyday task, and stuff like that just shouldn't nearly get you killed.

Hardcastle steadied his breathing and shifted his position slightly. "I'm going to have to move you again, get you away from the edge of the pool," he stated, "It'll probably hurt," he added softly.

Mark nodded without a hint of protest, he knew that he was still to weak to move himself. He braced himself as the Judge lifted him from under the arms and dragged him away from the pool edge. His shoulder exploded in pain again and he tried hard to stifle the cry that finally escaped as a strangled grunt.

Hardcastle settled Mark against the wall in a sitting position to help ease his breathing, watching him carefully as the screwed up tension in his features finally eased, the pain levels clearly settling to something he could control. Hardcastle swore softly again. He was fairly sure that the shoulder shouldn't still have been hurting him this much, but he'd known that long before Mark had nose-dived into the pool.

Mark opened his eyes, still slightly glassy and gave a shiver.

"I'm going to get a blanket and call an ambulance," there was the slightest of movements from Mark indicating that he was going to protest the latter. "And don't you dare even think of commenting. You are going to the hospital. You damn well near just died." The judge managed to just catch the hitched breath, but he still couldn't hide the fear even through the angry bluster. "If you'd let me call the doctor last night like I wanted to, none of this would be happening."

Mark looked at the older man, getting him clearly into focus for the first time, the fear wasn't just in his voice it was in his eyes too. 'Nearly died' the truth of the statement penetrated the confusion of memories. The dripping wet judge, the coughing, the water; you nearly drowned and he had to pull you out, probably give you CPR too, and it was all your own damned fault. What the hell is wrong with you? "Sorry," he stated again, quietly.

The Judge's expression softened. "Yeah, well, just don't move I'll be back in a minute."

Mark watched him depart before resting his head back and closing his eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling quite this bad, physically at least, emotionally he just couldn't seem to feel anything at all, not for himself, although he hated the effect his problems were having on the Judge. He desperately wanted to get back to normal, trouble was he was having a difficult time remembering what normal was any more.

The judge sat in silent vigil waiting for the ambulance to arrive. He had tucked a blanket around the young man's shoulders, which had been barely acknowledged as McCormick seemed to drift in and out of a state of semi-consciousness. At first he tried to wake him up again, but it quickly became clear that that was not really an option. So he contented himself with monitoring his breathing and occasionally checking his pulse until he heard the welcome wail of the ambulance siren.

Dammit you nearly lost him, again.

H&MH&M

Hardcastle sat in the Emergency Room waiting area, still wrapped in the blanket that one of the paramedics had put around his shoulders. His clothes were still a little damp and he occasionally gave a slight shiver. He'd managed to hold it together long enough to explain to the ambulance crew exactly what happened, his memories were a little shaky after that, a dazed swirl of movement as they prepped and loaded Mark into the ambulance. He must have rode in with them because he was here and he sure hadn't driven, but beyond Mark's oxygen mask covered pale features he didn't really remember much.

"Is someone here for Mark McCormick?"

The judge stood up and moved across, barely catching the edge of the blanket as it slipped off his shoulders. He didn't bother repositioning it, just pulled it after him. "Judge Milton Hardcastle," he introduced himself.

"Relative?" the doctor asked.

"Friend," the Judge replied, not really wanting to go into the whole parole situation if he didn't need to, "but I'm the closest he's got to family," he stated with conviction.

The doctor gave a slight nod. "You pulled him out of the pool?"

The flash of fear that accompanied the memory of dragging McCormick's lifeless form from the pool, stole his focus for just a split second. "Yeah," he breathed.

"And he passed out before he went in?" the doctor asked, this much had been apparent from the account the paramedics had made but he just wanted the facts confirmed.

"Yes," Hardcastle stated quietly. "What's wrong with him?"

"Well, aside from the near drowning, his blood sugar level was very low and he was fairly dehydrated. He's also suffering from a mild fever, the bullet wound in his shoulder is showing signs of infection and he's exhausted. Any one of those, and certainly the combination could account for him passing out. I'm surprised he was up and around let alone trying to clean a pool. He clearly hasn't been taking care of himself."

The judge felt a flash of guilt. You knew that but you didn't do anything about it. Not that he hadn't tried, every meal had been one of Mark's favourites, but the most the kid had done was taken a few mouthfuls and pushed the rest around the plate for a while trying to make it look like he'd eaten more than he had, and he couldn't make him rest, couldn't help him sleep. Yeah but you could have made him see a doctor. "He's stubborn," Hardcastle stated, fully aware that the term could easily be applied to him. "Doesn't like to admit that he's sick."

The doctor nodded again and gave a slight sigh. "Well, he's having to admit it now. Good job you were around to pull him out of the water."

Yeah, but he should never have been near it in the first place. You should have been looking after him. Hardcastle pulled his focus back to the doctor who had continued speaking.

"I've got him on fluids and antibiotics and we'll be keeping him in for at least twenty four hours to monitor him for any complications from the drowning." He paused, looked down at the floor. "Do you know what happened when he was shot?"

"We were ambushed, robbed, taken into the dessert to be killed," Hardcastle stated, "but we managed to get away."

"They were going to kill you both?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle stated as his gut tightened at yet another painful and altogether too raw memory.

"Have you spoken to anyone about it?" the doctor asked.

"Beyond each other," and there had been precious little of that. "No."

The doctor gave a thoughtful frown. "Well I think he should, maybe you too. I could sort out a referral."

"A shrink?" Hardcastle asked.

The doctor gave a slight smile. "A psychiatrist, yes I think it would do you both some good."

Hardcastle thought for a moment. He was pretty sure Mark's perception of needing psychiatric help was similar to his. Only as a last resort. And nearly drowning doesn't warrant a last resort? No, not with the frame of mind the kid was in at the moment. He'd take it completely the wrong way, be convinced that everyone thought he was crazy, and he was a long way off that. On the other hand he did need something. . Yeah he needs you to stop being so stubborn and talk about it yourself, at least just a little. He needs you. . . . and if that doesn't work? Then you take the doctor up on his kind offer.

"No," Hardcastle stated, keeping his tone level, reasonable, "at least not yet. I think he just needs a little time."

"And if that's not all he needs?" the doctor asked.

"Then I'll bring him back myself and you can refer away."

The doctor studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Think about it for yourself as well."

"I will," Hardcastle agreed. "Can I see him?"

"Yes," the doctor looked at his watch, "They're just moving him to a regular room, I'll get the nurse to come and tell you when he's settled."

"Thanks."

H&MH&M

Mark lay in the hospital bed, it had been raised to a slight angle so that he was staring at the far wall rather than the ceiling, not that it mattered much, his gaze penetrated beyond it into the middle distance.

What was wrong with him? He asked himself for the millionth time in the past few days. He was fully aware of how his behaviour was affecting the Judge and his own health. He'd been sullen and moody, not eating, not sleeping, not really doing anything. Not that he could do much. His shoulder prevented him from working on the house, the garden, the Coyote, even driving, but he hadn't even been doing the things that he could do, walking on the beach, reading, watching TV, things he enjoyed, because he didn't seem to be able to enjoy anything.

Each day he'd told himself to snap out of it, to just do something, but he hadn't managed it yet, and his lethargy seemed to be getting worse. Today he'd tried real hard to pull himself out of it. If not for his own sake then at least for the Judge who was clearly getting more worried about him as time went on, and who was equally being very patient in not calling him on any of his strange behaviour, at least not most of it. Trouble was he couldn't do it, couldn't shake the cloud of negative emotion that sat like a shroud around his shoulders. The terror of almost dying, the impotence of his injury, the anger at having lost his money, his chance to start again, his chance to pay the Judge back a little for all that he had done for him. He'd had it, and then it was gone. Forlorn melancholy dug a deep pit in his stomach, and then there was the hatred.

Hate was a powerful emotion and Mark had never felt it on quite this scale before, not even for the people who'd murdered his friend Flip Johnson, although he'd felt animosity toward them, it hadn't been hate, not like this, not this personal. As well as taking his dreams and his car these people had been going to murder him and the Judge in cold blood, face to face, for no reason. They had nothing to gain by killing them and nothing to lose by leaving them alive. They certainly hadn't been careful about not leaving witnesses in their other crimes, and yet, they were going to kill him and the Judge. Simply because they could, and so Mark felt hate on a personal level stronger than he'd ever felt before, especially with Melissa Kantwell, she'd been flirting with him, with a man she was going to kill.

Mark had seen death, certainly a lot more since he'd been hanging around with the Judge, and mostly he felt sorrow, grief at the loss of a life, even when it was one of the criminals they were chasing. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd pulled injured thugs, even murderers from wrecked vehicles so that they would survive. Life was worth something, but when he'd looked down at the faceless body of Arvin Lee, his hate had taken over, and part of him felt, what? Satisfied, happy that he was dead. The hate made him feel that, but he knew that that emotion was just plain wrong, so now the hatred extended to hating himself. It didn't make sense. He hated what the hate was doing to him but he couldn't help it, couldn't suppress the emotions, and the downward spiral was killing him. The negativity was eating him up from the inside out.

Today it had almost killed him, he swallowed hard, God if the Judge hadn't been there to pull him out.. . .

There was a light tap at the door and Hardcastle pushed his way in.

"You awake Kiddo?" he asked as he walked through the door, forcing an air of cheerful nonchalance. The smile wasn't that difficult to fake because despite his ongoing concern, the fact that McCormick was still alive, and would recover was enough for now, the rest would come later.

"Yeah," McCormick answered shifting his position on the pillows. He stared at Hardcastle. Whatever reaction he'd expected from the Judge it hadn't been smiles. Concern, fear, anger possibly, and they were all there in his eyes, but he hadn't expected a smiling Hardcastle.

"Doc says you're going to be OK," the Judge continued as he took the seat next to the bed, "but they're going to keep you in overnight for observation."

Mark nodded.

"And to build you up a bit," Hardcastle stared pointedly across to the fluid bags, before meeting the younger man's gaze again. "Seems you haven't been eating or drinking properly which left a dip in your immune system so your wound has become a little infected." He paused for a moment. "Probably why you passed out."

Mark recognised this for what it was, a Hardcastle lecture, just not delivered with his usual bluster. In fact it was the gentlest delivery he could remember, no doubt in deference to his fragile condition. Dammit, another thing to hate himself for. He hated feeling this vulnerable, this exposed, even in front of the Judge whom he trusted with his life. He dipped his head. "Sorry, guess I haven't been doing so well since. . . recently."

"You wanna talk about it?" the Judge asked quietly

Mark shook his head. "No I. . ." he hesitated for a moment. Could he tell the Judge about the fear, the anger? Could he explain the hatred? Did he want to? "No. . . I'll work it out."

"It's been nearly a week."

"I know." Mark met the Judge's gaze. "I'm sorry," he felt the need to repeat the apology. "I will work through it."

The Judge studied him; there was no doubting the sincerity of the statement. He would at least try. The question was could he succeed? Hardcastle nodded. He intertwined his fingers and looked down at the floor. This was hard for him, talking about emotions wasn't exactly high on his list of skills, but he was the one with the experience, the wisdom. If he couldn't do it how could he expect the kid to do it. "You had me scared there for a minute." He drew in a deep breath before looking up. "You stopped breathing." He let the remembered fear hang in the air before he continued. "Just remember you don't have to do anything alone."

"I know," and he had known for a while now. He wasn't alone in the world anymore. He had someone to watch his back, someone to be there for him, someone to pull him out of a pool when he passed out into it, and for the first time in nearly a week he allowed a genuine smile of his own. "I know," he repeated.

H&MH&M

Mark climbed slowly from the truck, his shoulder was starting to feel better again, at least he could touch his own arm without jumping from the shock, or grimacing from the shooting pains. It was definitely settling down. In fact physically he was feeling pretty good, relatively speaking, amazing what a bag or two of sugar, mineral salts and water and a drug induced good night's sleep could do for you. Hardcastle joined him, trying not to make it too obvious that he was there to support him if necessary.

"I'm good," Mark reassured as he headed for the main house. He'd had to make a promise to the doctor about regular meals in order to secure his release and it was coming up on lunchtime. Hardcastle followed him in, dropping his bag by the door. "I'll take that over to the gatehouse later." He clasped his hands together. "So what do you fancy for lunch."

Mark thought for a moment trying to remember what they had in the fridge. "Ham sandwich would be fine."

Hardcastle was a little disappointed, he knew what McCormick was doing, settling for whatever was the least problem, that wasn't going to cheer the kid up. "You sure? You can have anything you want."

Mark turned to face him, looking at the animated, almost eager stance with a quirk of amusement on his lips, this was one step above hovering. The judge was actively trying to cheer him up, and he had said he would try. Somehow his second brush with death in less than a week had at least reminded him of the importance of the man in front of him, and a little bit of the emotion he felt towards him, like? love? was starting to push some of the hate out of the way. "Anything huh?" he asked, his eyes gaining a slight sparkle.

The Judge looked back at him, pleased to see at least a little more animation from him. "Within reason," he qualified.

Mark gave it a little thought. "Pancakes," he finally announced.

"Pancakes?" the judge asked raising an eyebrow.

"It's what I really fancy right now, pancakes," Mark confirmed.

"Then I shall whip us up a batch, course they won't be as good as Sarah's, now she could really make a stack." The judge was already heading into the kitchen, with Mark following. "Course I've never figured why mine aren't as good, I am using her recipe." He was busy getting out the things he would need. "Damn!" he cursed softly as he studied the contents of the fridge. "No eggs," he said turning back to face McCormick who made a good job of covering his disappointment.

"It doesn't matter. . ." Mark began, but the Judge was already heading to the table to retrieve the truck keys.

"I'll just pop down the market it won't take me more than ten minutes. Go and put the TV on I'll call you when the pancakes are done."

Mark didn't bother with any further protest, the Judge was a bit like the proverbial unstoppable object when he got an idea to do something and Mark didn't feel much like being an immovable force at the moment, even if he had really wanted to stop him, after all it meant he would get his pancakes, something he actually felt like he would be able to both face eating and keep down. "OK," he managed the reply just before the Judge disappeared through the door.

H&MH&M

Hardcastle could sense there was something not quite right the second he stepped back into the house. There was something niggling. No sound of TV from the den for a start. He quickly deposited the bags on the floor of the hall and headed through to the den. The atmosphere was palpable even before he looked through the door, thick and black with anger. Mark wasn't sitting on the couch where he'd expected to find him. Instead he was standing staring at him. His expression as dark as the tension that now hung between them. What could have happened, what would have. . .

"When were you going to tell me?" Mark asked; his expression tight with barely contained anger and frustration.

The Judge fumbled through his thoughts for a second before the explanation hit him, but he couldn't confirm it outright, not yet, just in case this was something else, even though he knew it wasn't. "Tell you what?" he asked cautiously.

Mark didn't reply he just pressed the play button on the answer phone.

"Hi this is acting Sheriff Dan Johnson up in Cochise County, just updating you as you asked on Melissa Kantwell's escape. Still nothing I'm afraid. The state-wide bulletin hasn't got any hits yet and the general consensus is that she's changed her appearance. I'll keep you updated, but since it's been more than 48 hours now, the chances are that she's already made it down into Mexico. Sorry I can't give you better news. I'll be in touch."

The message ended and the silence stretched. Mark was staring at the answering machine. Eventually he looked up. "So when were you going to tell me." His tone was low and dangerous. "Sometime before I was due to appear in court as a witness against her I assume. 'Cos I would have looked damned stupid turning up on my own." The bitterness underlying the anger was clear.

Hardcastle knew that he was on damage limitation now. "I was kinda hoping they'd recapture her before you had to know," he stated as he moved round his desk to sit in his chair. "You've been so down I just didn't want you to get any more. . ." he paused searching for the right word. "upset."

"Upset," McCormick repeated loudly. "Upset, now why would I be upset, just because the person who stole and burned my money, the person who kidnapped and tried to kill us, the person who stole my car and shot me. Just because she escaped from your precious justice system now why should I be upset?" He was shouting now

"It's your justice system too," Hardcastle countered, "And I didn't tell you because there was nothing you could have done."

"I could have gone after her," Mark was still yelling.

"That's exactly what I was afraid of," Hardcastle tried to calm down his tone in the hope that the young man would copy his example. "What could you have done that the Sheriff's department, state police and border control couldn't?" Mark set his lip in a tight line, the judge tried a different tack. Standing again to face Mark down. "Besides you were in no condition to go charging across the country looking for escaped convicts."

"Who are you to decide what condition I'm in, what I'm capable of doing," Mark yelled back.

"I'm your parole officer that's who," the words had left the Judge's lips before he'd had time to think about them and he regretted them instantly. "I. . .I. ."

But it was too late, Mark gave an angry glare before he turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the front door as he went.

"And I'm your friend," the Judge finished the sentence quietly as he sank down into his chair.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	2. If Only

Author's note:- Ok, for those of you who don't know me, I'd better explain that, when it comes to cliffhangers, I am, in fact, evil with a capital E and a capital VIL as well. I hope you enjoy this, please let me know - J

**Chapter 2: If Only. . .**

Mark got a few steps before he stopped. Normally his anger would have taken him clear back to the gatehouse but he simply couldn't sustain the build up of emotion. It was like trying to inflate a leaking tyre. The emotion was there all right he could feel it forming, and he'd sure as hell been angry at the Judge for keeping Melissa's escape from him. He'd been able to feel the red haze, and it wasn't as if he'd never been angry at the Judge before. He made decisions that were just so damn infuriating, treating him like a kid, and he hadn't been a kid in such a long time, hadn't been allowed to be a kid for as long as he should have been, and, whenever Hardcastle made him feel like that, there was the conflict that every teenager feels, that makes them want to tear themselves apart, the conflict between needing respect for their independence and ability to function unaided in the world, and the need to still have someone who would love and protect them. The need that made every teenage child argue with their parents. The fact that McCormick was nearly thirty, didn't alter the fact that what the relationship between him and the judge needed to undergo, was a natural right of passage, before it could build into anything stronger. It was scarily predictable and normal for a young man who had missed out on so much growing up.

This, however, wasn't normal. If he'd just felt the anger for another half an hour, stomped around and vowed to prove the judge wrong, then it would have been normal. So what was different, apart from the fact that he couldn't seem to hold on to that anger and frustration, apart from the way it now swirled around him but not in him, because in him just seemed empty.

Empty.

He sighed and scrubbed his hand across his face, briefly considering going back inside. There was a part of him that knew the judge hadn't meant the comment. If he'd said it a year ago, then yes, there would have been some truth to it, and Mark might have taken it literally, but that was then and this was now, and there was so much more to their relationship. Hardcastle only ever dropped back to being 'judicial' when he was trying to protect him from something.

Yes, and right now he's trying to protect you from yourself, just like he did last week. He's trying to stop you from doing something stupid, just like he's always done. He cares about you.

Mark looked back at the door longingly, there was a part of him that wanted to go back, a part of him that needed to go back, that needed to feel protected, but the black emotions wouldn't let him.

'He's better off without you,' the idea drifted up from somewhere deep inside, and although his consciousness was tempted to argue with the voice that gave the thought form and meaning, he couldn't help acknowledging that deep down he believed it. 'The way you are now, you're only going to get worse. Do you want to drag him down with you? He'll try to help you and it will kill him too.'

'He's better off without you.'

In the end the voice of negativity won. Mark turned, shoulders slumped in defeat and walked slowly back towards the gatehouse.

H&MCH&MC

'Well that went well', Hardcastle told himself as he stared thoughtfully across his desk, chewing on the edge of his finger. He shook his head slightly. 'I'm your parole officer,' 'you're in my Judicial stay,' ' I could send you back to prison' Way to go judge, all phrases he'd used, all guaranteed to make the kid trust him, he didn't think. What on earth had possessed him to go back to that? He hadn't felt the need to threaten the kid in a long time now, at least not with any strength of meaning behind it, and even if he did the kid just laughed it off. He knew where he stood, at least he had done, but now. . ? Did McCormick even recognise that he just wanted to protect him, that he was looking out for him the way the kid had demonstrated time and time again that he would look out for the Judge?

He stared at the door for the den. Should he go after him? Normally no, he would give him a good half hour to calm down, cool his heels, then either McCormick would turn up in the kitchen starting lunch or dinner, and the question of what they were having would be used to break the ice back into what passed for normal between them, or, depending on the time of day, the Judge would go out on the pretence of checking up on whatever chore it was that McCormick was busying himself with, and a détente would be established in the only way that two alpha males could. That wasn't going to happen today, not just because, given Mark's injury, neither scenario was likely, but because this was one of those very rare arguments where one of them, or sometimes both of them went too far. In those cases there was either an eating of lots of crow on one side or the other, or, more rarely, there were several days of testosterone fuelled stand-off, but again, neither scenario seemed likely to the Judge, and so he was left with what? Unexplored territory, and in this case it would be up to him to do the exploring, because McCormick certainly wasn't in any condition to.

That left an awful lot of questions. Leave him? Go after him? Wait until he came back on his own? Give him time to cool off and then. . ? He pinched the end of his nose. This was giving him a headache.

'Pancakes,' the word on it's own seemed incongruous to his train of thought. Then he got it. The kid wanted pancakes. If he made them it would give him an excuse to take them over to the gatehouse. After all, the doctor had insisted that if he left the hospital then he had to have regular meals. So it was the perfect excuse. He could take them over, see how the kid was doing and take it from there. If he was ready to talk then he would stay. If he wasn't then at least he could get a look at him, make sure he hadn't done anything irreparable, maybe even make him listen even if he wasn't ready to.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Hardcastle pushed himself from his seat and headed for the hallway to retrieve the bags from the market before heading for the kitchen.

H&MCH&MC

Hardcastle had a stack of eight pancakes ready when he heard the tell tale sound of the Coyote. He had just been arguing with himself about whether it was enough, or should he do a couple more. Even though he knew he probably already had more than McCormick would eat, especially given his recent appetite, the compulsion to do that extra couple, 'just in case,' had been too much, and he had started to pour the mixture into the pan when the dull roar of the engine firing reached him.

He just about had the presence of mind to turn the gas off before he headed for the door at a run, but he was too late. The bright red machine was already disappearing round the bend in the drive. "McCormick," he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Come back," he ran futilely down the drive, still able to hear the roaring engine even though it remained beyond his line of vision. He ran until he could see the gate, but he was too late to even tell what direction the kid had turned as he cleared the driveway.

He briefly gave consideration to going after him, but he didn't have either the keys for the truck or the Corvette and by the time he'd made it back to the house and retrieved them, the trail, such as it was, would've run cold. Dammit, he didn't even know which way he'd turned. If only he'd done less pancakes. . . If only he'd just headed after him. . If only. . .

He wasn't sure how long he stood staring at the empty drive for. It could have been a few seconds; it could have been an hour. He let out a long breath as his mind once again began to function, and all he had was questions. Had the kid gone out to drive around to clear his head? That wasn't unheard of, driving always seemed to have a soothing effect on him. Not that he should be driving at all of course, not with his shoulder in the condition it was, not having passed out and nearly drowned only the day before. Or had he been mad enough, and stupid enough to think he could head out to Arizona to start looking for Melissa Kantwell? Until the judge could answer that he wouldn't know where to begin to start looking, or if he even needed to.

He cursed softly to himself as he turned and headed back towards the house.

H&MCH&MC

Melissa shook out her hair and revelled in the feeling of the wind blowing through it as she slipped the Coyote into a higher gear, and pressed her foot back down on the accelerator. "Oh Sugar, isn't that feeling of acceleration just the most exhilarating thing you ever felt?" she asked, glancing across at her companion in the passenger seat, completely oblivious to the fact that unconscious people do not answer questions.

McCormick's head shifted slightly as she took a tight bend too fast, and the back tyres went into a short lived skid sideways before gripping the road again with a slight shudder as they came out of the turn. A small trickle of blood rolled down his forehead.

"Oh yeah, Sugar," Melissa shouted enthusiastically over the roar of the engine. "You and me are going to have some fun."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	3. Using your atributes

Author's note:- Ok maybe getting this done in 3 chapters was a little ambitious, especially since I'm having so much fun with these characters. Hope you enjoy it. Please let me know- J (ps just to remind you- evil!!!)

**Chapter 3: Using your attributes**

It normally took the judge at least a few hours of McCormick being out of his sight without explanation before he started worrying about him. In the beginning he had worried, well, maybe not worried, maybe just had taken a concerned interest, whenever he hadn't known exactly where his charge was. Hell, sometimes because he had known where McCormick was, but over the last two years a trust had built between them that meant, unless they were working a case, some of them got a little ropey, he didn't need to worry so much. Not that that always stopped him, and not that he would ever admit it, at least not out loud.

The kid had proven time and time again that he could take care of himself, even when the odds were stacked against him, and the judge wouldn't normally even think twice about him taking off for a drive to clear his head, but these were unusual circumstances. Hardcastle had been worrying about him long before the Coyote had disappeared down the drive, and now he had the uncertainty of not knowing where he had gone, or for how long, or fully why. He pushed open the door and took one last longing look in the direction of the gate. He let out a heavy sigh. What on earth was the kid thinking? He was in no condition to drive.

He walked slowly back to the den, the cooling pile of pancakes, and half-cooked mixture congealing in the pan, already forgotten. He slumped contemplatively into the chair behind his desk, and considered his options. He glanced across at the phone. He was tempted to pick it up and call in a few favours. He had enough owing that he could get the LAPD to do a locate and report easily enough, no one would even think to question him if he said it was necessary. He shook his head; that would be an abuse of the system. He didn't really have good enough reason, and the LA police force were not his personal servants, they had a job to do and it didn't include tracking down McCormick no matter how worried about him he was. Then again, McCormick was sick and angry, and, as such, a potential hazard to himself and other road users and. . .No! it was no good; he couldn't really justify it, at least not yet. That left him with only one real option, waiting, and Hardcastle wasn't very good at that, even under the best of circumstances.

He sat for another ten minutes before he finally reached for the phone. At least he could ring Sheriff Johnson for an update. Maybe give Frank Harper a ring too, to see if he could find anything more out through official channels. When McCormick did get back, he could then give him the most up to date information on the whereabouts of Melissa Kantwell, maybe even persuade him to get another good night's sleep in before they took off after her, because there was no doubt in his mind that persuading the kid not to go after her would be an impossibility, even if she had made it down into Mexico.

He paused for a moment, the receiver in his hand, now who did he know in Mexico. . ? He was still considering that as he checked the number for the Cochise County Sheriff's Department and began dialing.

H&MCH&MC

Melissa leaned into the Coyote on the passenger side and stared again at the handsome face of her captive. She ran her fingers in a caress down the side of his cheek and was disappointed when he still did not respond.

"Well, Sugar," she said, stretching out the soft Southern drawl into her most silky smooth seductive tones. "Guess I hit you a little harder than I intended back at the house there, but don't you worry none, because I'm gonna take real good care of ya, real good." She brushed some of the hair off his forehead, frowning slightly as she got a little blood on her fingers. She wiped it off on his shirt. "Now you just sit tight there while I go get me some help to get you inside." She gave his cheek a gentle pat before turning and, with a satisfied smile and a little skip, she set off for the Motel office.

It was a completely different Melissa Kantwell who entered the small room that served as a reception for the backwater motel. Her hair was messy, the sleeve on her blouse slightly ripped, and she had very genuine looking tears brimming in her eyes. She looked every bit the helpless victim that she intended. "Please," she blurted, almost before the door was fully open. She stepped into the room, appearing to suddenly hesitate now that she was actually through the door. "Please," she said again, "You have to help me."

Her entrance had the desired effect on the bored young male receptionist. Kyle Granger would have headed straight for the distraught young woman and put his arms around her if he hadn't had the tall counter separating them. As it was he very nearly vaulted over it. Every part of her screamed vulnerable victim at him, and the urge to offer protection was almost overwhelming. "Ma'am?" he asked, glancing behind her to see if he could locate the reason for her distress. "What's wrong? How can I help?" He moved as he spoke, lifting one edge of the counter and fumbling for the bolt that held the built in door in place.

"I. . ." Melissa glanced behind her in the direction of the road, not that she could see it from behind the screen of trees, one of the reasons why she'd chosen this place. "I. . ." she allowed her voice to falter, allowed her bottom lip to quiver just a little as she fought back the tears. Kyle was by her side now, quietly urging her to one of the two tarnished chrome and simulated leather chairs that served for furniture in the small reception.

"Look, Ma'am," the young man said respectfully, "Why don't you take a seat and tell me about it. I'm sure we can sort this out."

"I'm sorry," Melissa said, sniffling back the tears as she looked up at him and shyly fluttered her lashes, "I don't mean to cry I'm just not used to. . ." She paused and gave him a small smile. "Thank you," she said.

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" he urged.

Melissa gave a small nod and looked down at the floor. "It's my ex husband," she stated, with obvious bitterness. "Divorce only came through last month and he always was real jealous." She paused for a moment and gave a slight shudder as though she was remembering something unpleasant. "Anyways I got myself this new boyfriend, he's called Mark." She looked back at Kyle, again allowing a smile through the faked pain. "He's real handsome, and he's a genuine racecar driver. He even won the Arizona Modifieds."

Kyle looked suitably impressed. "I guess your ex wasn't too happy," he commented.

Melissa nodded, her smile fading as her gaze dropped back to the floor. "Milton, that's my ex's name, didn't like it at all, swore he'd kill us both before he'd let us be happy together. He came after us, knocked Mark clean out, I only just managed to get us away because he went back to get his gun, and I don't think he thought I could get Mark to the car, but I did." She paused "I just need somewhere for me and Mark to hold up, let him recover, and we can decide what we're gonna do." It was time to flutter her eyelashes softly again, and she looked up, keeping her head down at a slight angle to give the right effect. "That's how come I'm here. I need somewhere where I can hide Mark's car, it's real distinctive, somewhere where there won't be too many questions."

Kyle was completely taken in by the story. "If this ex of yours tried to kill you why don't you just go to the cops?"

Melissa shook her head sadly. "That's part of the problem, my ex is a cop, he knows too many of them. They'd never believe me over him. That's how come I didn't take Mark to a hospital, there'd be too much chance of him tracking us down." She gave a sad smile. "So, do you think you can help me?"

If Kyle hadn't been quite so young, so naïve, and even then if Melissa had been slightly less convincing with her acting and her story, her request to help her carry an unconscious and obviously bleeding man into a motel room, without the police knowing, and making sure that the car was hidden well out of sight between outbuildings at the back, might have aroused even his suspicions, but he was naïve, and she was utterly convincing, so he swallowed her explanation in it's entirety. He put them in the last room, furthest from the reception in a section that rarely got used because they were never full, the part where the rooms were in the sort of shabby state that you only used when you had nowhere else to put someone. He also assured her that there would be no maid service, and they could stay there undisturbed for as long as they liked. She thanked him with a smile, a hug and a soft kiss to his cheek that made him blush. Not to mention two crisp one hundred dollar bills, which she had acquired from an equally gullible prison guard, who had been convinced that they were going to live happily together in Mexico in a nice little house with white fences and a sewing room.

"I'll tell everyone you're a honeymoon couple and that you don't want to be disturbed," Kyle said, as Melissa manoeuvred him back out of the door. He glanced over her shoulder. "I sure hope your friend's gonna be all right. He doesn't look too good."

"He'll be fine," Melissa assured, glancing back herself to where Mark was now lying on the bed. "I'll look after him," she said meaningfully, turning to give Kyle another smile. "Thanks again for your help."

"S'okay," Kyle replied, waiting until she closed the door on him before he headed back to the office, content in that feeling of real satisfaction that you only get by helping someone else.

Melissa leant back against the door as it closed and let out a long sigh, allowing herself to relax, shedding the distraught ex-wife persona like a snake sheds it skin, shaking it off as she dropped back into herself. After a few moments she looked across at the bed and gave a much more predatory smile. Alone at last, now the fun could really begin.

H&MCH&MC

Lieutenant Frank Harper didn't even get to knock before the door opened in front of him revealing a very worried looking Hardcastle.

"You hear anything?" Hardcastle asked, ushering his friend inside.

Frank looked at his watch. "We only put out the APB 20 minutes ago," he stated patiently.

"I know, I know," the Judge agreed equally impatiently, "I should have got you to do something earlier this afternoon." They were in the office now, and Hardcastle was moving behind his desk. "I don't know why I didn't."

"You didn't because you weren't sure anything was wrong." Frank stated, dropping into one of the seats. "You still aren't." He paused for a moment before expanding. "I mean it is still conceivable that he took it into his head to go after Melissa Kantwell without your help."

The Judge shook his head, he'd had time to think about it, and he was all but sure now that his concerns were justified. "He was mad, but not that mad. It's been over six hours. If he just went to cool off he'd have been back by now, and if he had decided to go after her then he would have packed some things." He pointed at the medication bottles on the desk, "At the very least he would have come back for those, the doctor was quite clear in the lecture he gave him about not caring for his wound properly. He's supposed to take the antibiotics for another week."

He gave a thoughtful pause, "And if he is headed to Arizona, he would call me to let me know what he was doing. He wouldn't just take off." Not a hundred percent true, he might well just take off, but once he calmed down and thought about it, he'd call. The Judge was sure of that, sure that McCormick would know how worried he'd be, sure that he wouldn't have wanted him to go on worrying. He shook his head again. "He would have called me by now," he stated with conviction, looking down as if focussing on a tiny grain within the wood of the desk. His eyes glistened with slightly more moisture than they should hold and he took a deep swallow, finally looking up to meet Harper's gaze. "Something's happened to him Frank. I know it."

"Well if it has we'll find him." Harper offered, knowing it wouldn't be enough.

"I've already called the local hospitals," the Judge admitted, "While you were on your way over."

The judge's first call had been within a half an hour of McCormick leaving, and even then he hadn't been able to hide the fear in his voice from an old friend like Frank Harper. He had, however, despite that fear, managed to steer the conversation mainly onto the possible whereabouts of Melissa Kantwell, rather than a discussion about McCormick.

Frank had checked back at the end of his shift, and, by then, even his gut was telling him that there was something wrong. That was when they had agreed the APB, observe and report only. If they were wrong McCormick would be mildly annoyed, but if they were right. . .

"No one matching McCormick's description has been admitted in the last few hours, but I didn't check. . ." the Judge's voice trailed off as he tried to withhold the emotion. He took a breath and tried again. "I didn't call. . ." again he couldn't quite complete the thought without allowing too much vulnerability to the surface, not something he could easily do, even with a close friend like Frank Harper. He looked at him, the appeal for rescue from his failed attempts evident in his eyes.

Frank didn't need any more. Hardcastle hadn't been able to force himself to check with the local morgues, even though he was sure that it was a possible option. What state was McCormick in? Harper knew that he was very down, but had it sunk to suicidal? Surely not within the space of a week? Then again, the near drowning the previous day, had that been the result of the unfortunate incident Hardcastle claimed, or was there more to it. Had Mark. . .? Harper shook his head dismissing the line of thought, no, not McCormick, not even in his darkest hour, and losing money certainly wouldn't get him there. He stared at Hardcastle for a moment, just how bad had this argument been? "If he's anywhere official we'll get a response to the APB soon," he stated. "That car's pretty distinctive, if it's anything bad we'll know within the hour."

The Judge nodded. It was the best response he could have hoped for.

H&MCH&MC

Melissa knelt on the side of the bed staring intently at Mark. His arms were now drawn up above his head and out to the side, handcuffed to the corners of the metal bedframe. He fascinated her for many reasons. Watching him win that race had been one of the most exciting experiences of her life, even more thrilling than helping Arvin Lee with his robberies, or having her husband kill for her. She couldn't explain why, but from the moment she'd watched him cross the finish line, she knew that he was going to be more than just another robbery victim.

She'd wanted him to like her, men always liked her because she gave them what they wanted, or at least that's what they thought. She usually took back far more than she gave, but that was the deal.

She'd wanted Mark, just because he'd won the race, but even more when she saw him; he was charming and handsome, and, more than that, he had a genuine skill. She'd tried to talk to him in the desert. She'd tried. She was even thinking of asking Arvin Lee not to kill him, but he'd rejected her. She couldn't forget that cold look he'd given her, couldn't forget it, couldn't forgive it.

Then, when she'd seen him at the motel, after her husband was killed, she'd thought again that it was destiny; that he was going to save her, because he could. All's he had to do was tell them that Arvin Lee and Sheriff Blackstone had forced her to help them.

Mark could have done that. He could have saved her, but no. He'd given her that same cold look, and let them drag her off to prison. Worse than that he was with that judge. He'd brought the law there; she knew that now. It had been his fault she'd lost her money, his fault her husband had been killed, his testimony that was going to put her in jail, and so she hated him, and now he was going to pay for what he had done. More than that he was going to replace what she had lost, her money, her husband . . .

She moved forward and slowly unbuttoned his shirt to the waist, pushing the fabric back to reveal a tanned muscular torso, she let out a sigh and softly traced her fingers down his chest, watching his face for any sort of reaction; there was none. She stopped as the material fell back a little further revealing more of the white bandage that wrapped around his shoulder. Fascinated by it, she leaned in to touch it. That was where she had shot him, she hadn't known exactly where she'd hit him at the time, just that she had. She traced her fingers gently along the padding, then, when she got to the middle, she suddenly pressed hard. That got her a reaction.

Mark winced, and expelled a soft grunt, twisting his body away from the source of the pain, his right arm pulling slightly on the cuffs. Drifting almost close enough to consciousness to really feel it before sinking back down again, his head shifting restlessly on the pillow before finally settling as the pressure was removed. Melissa's hand drifted away from the bandage and stroked across the skin of his chest, and she let out another sigh. Oh if only he'd wake up, they could have so much more fun.

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .


	4. Demands

Author's note:- many apologies for the delay. Warning for this chapter, whilst there is nothing too graphic the squeamish may want to look away. Thank you for all of the support so far. Do let me know what you think. J

**Chapter 4: Demands**

Mark shifted slightly trying to move his arm to alleviate some of the aching pain, but there was something stopping the movement. He rolled his shoulder, moving as much as he could to turn into the ache as he attempted to claw his way back to consciousness. His mind was fuzzy, the world registering only as sound, and there was precious little of that, the hum of a light bulb that should have been silent, the high pitched chirping of a lonely cricket seeking companionship out of season, the odd rattle of an ill fitting door or window as a gust of wind caught it.

The next sensation to return was smell, damp mustiness, sweat and. . . something else. If he'd been more aware he might have identified it as fear, possibly. Not that humans were as adept at identifying the smell as animals were, but even though he couldn't identify it at a conscious level, on some subconscious level it pushed his anxiety buttons, and a softly skittering cold breeze danced across his exposed skin, as his heart rate kicked up, and his breathing became that little more rapid, that little more shallow.

The idea that something was very wrong finally registered as a conscious thought and he increased his efforts to pull himself awake. The fact that even opening his eyes was proving so difficult did nothing for his rising anxiety, and, by the time blurred images began to register as something other than the sensation of light and dark, he was already breaking out in a cold sweat, his breathing too fast.

He did not recognise his surroundings, dull green walls and slightly cracked paintwork, furniture that had probably looked old when it was brand new, before the wearing and the scratches had spoiled the finish on the woodwork. He was lying on a bed, on a slightly lumpy mattress. Cheap motel or hotel room he concluded. Not that that was difficult, he had seen his fair share of them in his time. Not quite as bad as a cell, but only because you could come and go as you pleased, not because the accommodations were any better, but what the hell was he doing here and why. . .?

He struggled through the mush that currently masqueraded as his memory, looking for answers in the jumbled mass of images and thoughts, even as he turned his head to try to find out what was restricting his arm movements. Handcuffs. . . .what the. . ? He turned his head a little too quickly to the right to check the side of his injured shoulder, and gasped from the pain even as he noted the handcuffs securing that wrist too, and suddenly the anxiety level that his brain was operating at didn't seem enough, and his heart-rate and breathing quickened further as his body dumped a slew of chemicals into his system in response to the fear.

"Oh good you're awake. . ."

Mark turned his head again to look down and across to the source of the sound, and every thought, every feeling froze in a sudden numbness at the recognition, Melissa Kantwell. . . .

She slowly unfolded her leg from underneath as she rose, closing the magazine she had been flicking through as she did so. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever wake up." She dropped the magazine on the chair behind her and began to walk forward, one step carefully placed in front of the other like a model on a catwalk, a pronounced swing in her hips. She dropped forward bending at the waist as she reached the bed, exposing a maximum view of her cleavage. She shook her head to flick out her hair. "You have beautiful blue eyes." Her tone was soft and sultry, "and you're real handsome, but you know that don't ya?" Her hand moved up to the brush the curls off his forehead, lightly caressing his skin.

He flinched a little, away from her touch, it was pure reflex, his thoughts were still frozen, and her eyes flashed in anger at the reaction, but it was only a slight break to the mask of sultry seductress. "Oh now don't you be like that," she said softly. "I want us to be friends." She gave him a soft smile. "I want you to tell me all about your racing." She shook her head again allowing a little excitement mixed with awe, as the memory of watching Mark race replaced all other thoughts. "I want you to tell me what it's like to drive so fast that everyone else is just chasing to keep up." The smile was genuine, the remembered excitement making her breath hitch a little. "We can be real good friends," she added as she moved to touch him again and again he moved away from it. There was still some element of reaction but there was some control this time as his thoughts unfroze and desperately scrambled to catch up with the time that had elapsed.

Mark's head shifted backwards. It was a small but sharp move, coupled with a push from his feet to move back away from her. He regarded her coldly. "What do you want?" he asked, unable to keep his tone to the neutral he'd been aiming for, the anger still crept in. A large part of his mind knew that she was crazy, that antagonising her was a really bad idea, it was that part that had aimed for the neutral tone, but there was just too much anger, too much resentment towards her for what she had done to him, to Arvin Lee, to Sheriff Blackstone, for he was in no doubt that she was the one doing the manipulating, feeding their anxieties as well as their fantasies. It was just too much for him to fully suppress, and that was before she'd kidnapped him and handcuffed him to a bed.

Melissa pouted a little. "I just told you, I want to learn all about you." She held the pose of sulky child for a moment or two, and then her expression softened as she stared into his eyes, her hatred temporarily forgotten as she allowed her attraction to him to take over. Lust and infatuation burned through her, and her hand dropped down to his bare chest as she ignored the cold glare of hatred that met her lustful gaze, and lightly ran her fingers through the mess of short hair, the movement slow and sensual.

Mark's mind froze again, and he barely felt the chafing on his wrists as his muscles tensed in reaction to the unwanted touch, his mind attempting to find refuge in denial as her other hand joined the first and she lightly massaged his chest, rocking a little as she moved. This couldn't be. . .he wasn't. . .but he was, helpless, hopeless, at her mercy.

No. . ! he closed his eyes, willing the external world to go away, but willpower wasn't enough. Her weight was shifting, she was sitting across his thighs, he could feel her as she rocked forward again, and her hands still played over his chest, and her lips moved down to meet his, warm breath, soft moist contact, weight shifting backwards and forwards, and she was talking to him, soft sultry tones, but he couldn't make out the words past the blood thundering in his ears.

Pain now shot down from his shoulder, pulled on his wrists, as his hands clenched in empty fists. No. . still he tried to deny, but he could feel his body betraying him, responding to the sensations, and he was just lying there and letting her. . "No!". . and he didn't even register that he had screamed the word, that he had arched his back off the bed and twisted in a frantic motion to get her off him. That she had been thrown to the floor where she rolled and thudded into the wall, because all that was in his mind was fear and revulsion, and he scrambled backwards, not feeling the tearing of skin on his wrists, the ripping of barely healed flesh as he twisted his arms awkwardly, pushing back with his feet, retreating to the corner of the bed furthest from her as he pushed his back hard into the headboard, sitting with his knees drawn up as far as they would go in a tight defensive ball, but it wasn't enough.

Melissa pushed herself to standing and stared at Mark, with an expression of hatred that turned her beauty ugly. Her eyes flashed with a twisted anger and her smile had turned to a sneer, passionate lust switching back to passionate hatred in a heartbeat, dipolar opposites contained in the same body, the same mind, in a way that could only be achieved by the truly insane. She snatched the gun from the dresser and threw herself forwards.

Mark turned away, tried to avoid the blow, but his arms were pulled out to either side, his instinct to curl away from the danger left his legs trapped at an awkward angle, and useless for defence against the raging harridan who now descended on him. He felt the pistol make contact with his cheek as the backhanded blow struck, and his face exploded in pain, and then there was a haze of red and white. There was barely time to register the pain of each blow before the next one hit.

H&MCH&MC

Mark opened his eyes, well he opened one of them at least, the other felt swollen shut, a sensation he was sadly over-familiar with. What . . ? How. . .?

Thinking was so difficult, like crawling through mud, slow messy. An almost overwhelming sense of cold fear pervaded his senses, fed memories that returned in stark flashes, contrasting with the near darkness of the room around him. He tried to ignore the burning pain that seemed to scream from every inch of his arms, head and chest, tried to separate out other sensations, take his bearings on where he was. Lying on a bed in a cheap motel, with. . was that hair? a head? resting on his chest. . .what was?

The thought hit him like another physical blow. . .Melissa. She was lying on the bed with him, her head resting across his chest, her arm around him, sleeping on him in the soft natural pose of a lover, and he felt the nausea rising, swallowed back the bile, attempted to temper his breathing so as not to disturb her, because although every instinct was screaming at him to pull away from her, the fear was stronger, the survival instinct was stronger. If he did anything there would be more pain, and he couldn't take any more pain right now, he just couldn't take. . he just couldn't, and much to his shame, tears began to run down his cheek and he couldn't even wipe them away.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	5. The Morning After

Author's note: Did I say three chapters. . .well, think of a number, multiply by five, divide by two and subtract the first number you thought of, and that's the number of chapters I'm going to overrun my estimate by. Hope you are still enjoying, sorry for the delays I'm in the middle of exam marking season. Let me know what you think -J

**Chapter 5 : The Morning After **

Hardcastle stared through the window, watching the first light of dawn wash the greys of the night with colour. He stifled a yawn, rubbing at his eyes to try to remove that scratchy feeling that always accompanied too little sleep, and made a half hearted attempt at wrapping his robe around him, securing the belt, but he only succeeded in half closing it, turning to look forlornly at the crumpled bedsheets. He sighed, no point in making another attempt at sleep. In the four hours that he'd tried he'd managed perhaps two, broken at best. The tossing and turning of trying more wearing than if he just admitted defeat and stayed awake. He would sleep when he'd found McCormick. Until then. . . .

He tried hard to ignore the 'if' that some part of his psyche had shouted over the when. It was a part of his psyche that he frequently ignored, the part that offered him anything less than success in his latest endeavour. The part that tried to remind him that things could go wrong when he was formulating his plans, the part that he didn't, under normal circumstances, listen to, but the fear and worry wouldn't quite let him ignore it this time, and it was the 'if' that resonated as he headed to the bathroom for a shower.

He'd spent most of the previous evening, once Frank had left, studying maps, California, Nevada, Arizona and Mexico, thousands of square miles of mainly desert and farmland, and endless roads, interstates, side roads, fire roads. . . and McCormick could be on any one of them, or skidded off of any one of them. Lying in a ditch somewhere. The Judge had processed a thousand different images, of a thousand possible wrecks. Every time the road he'd been following on the map had hit a sharp curve, or run close to a cliff, or a bridge, or a slope, so many different ways, so many different places. . . . . and each passing minute with no news made them seem less like possibilities and more like certainties, and now those minutes had turned to hours, more than twelve since he'd walked out in anger, walked out on harsh words and unmeant sentiments, and. . . dammit. . . if he was all right he should have heard something by now. . .something.

Once dressed and downstairs he checked his watch, still too early to ring for information without risking upsetting the people he was relying on for help, so he headed into the kitchen to make himself some strong coffee, and try to decide what to do.

A large part of him was itching to get in his truck and head in the direction of Arizona. If he assumed that McCormick'd take a similar route to the one he'd taken a week before, then he could drive it looking for any signs of an accident. At least it'd be doing something, and hanging round the estate wasn't accomplishing much.

Except for keeping him by the phone

Somehow the same gut instinct that told him there was something wrong, was telling him that if McCormick could, then this was where he'd come back to. This was where he would call, and the Judge knew that he should be there when that happened.

Once again he ignored the screaming 'if' that challenged the when.

H&MCH&MC

Mark savoured the sensation of the cooling cloth as he felt it wash away some of the pain from his aching head. Ice had already cooled his cheek to a blissful numbness and his shoulder was throbbing less, he realised it was because his right arm was resting across his chest, a soft dressing replacing the harsh metal of the handcuffs and just for a fleeting moment, as self awareness returned just slightly ahead of his ability to process his surroundings, he felt safe.

Safe because ice packs and cold cloths and dressings meant the first aid kit and a gruff Judge, who pretended not to be concerned, protested about having to help him clean himself up again, berated him for not dodging quick enough, or doing something stupid, and yet every gruff word, every protesting gesture, held a care and concern beyond anything McCormick had experienced before, beyond anything he felt he deserved.

Mark gave as good as he got, protested as much back about how his latest injury was nothing, about how the judge should quit fussing because he was a big boy and could take care of himself, and all the time there was his own unspoken communication, his own silent thanks. Unspoken because he couldn't say it, wouldn't know how. Too long alone, too long neglected had robbed him of the emotional vocabulary, but with the Judge it didn't seem to matter. Whatever they said, they both understood, and somehow it was better that way, without the mush.

As his eyes began to focus, he half expected to see the Judge scowling down at him, asking him what he'd done to himself this time. It made the reality check that much harder. The despair, that should have been left in the early morning hours before dawn where it belonged, came screaming back, as his eyes blinked the face above him into focus, and instead of Hardcastle he stared up into the eyes of Melissa Kantwell.

He must have reacted, there must have been some attempt at movement because he felt gentle pressure, holding him down, a soothing voice, telling him to "shush and be still," that "everything would be all right," but he honestly didn't have the awareness for any of it to have been conscious, as his mind dipped into a swirling, giddy, twisting ride, thoughts and emotions lost for a moment as he fell. The only thing he could process beyond the nausea, was that it was dark, and then he was back, touch, sight, sound, thoughts, like someone had switched him back on like a light.

"It's OK sugar," Melissa said; gently removing the cloth and soaking and squeezing it again, before laying it back across his forehead. "I'm gonna take care of all these nasty cuts and bruises for ya." She trailed her finger down the side or his face, stopping to gently touch the split in his lip, her eyes following the movement. She met his gaze again. "See how nice I can be when you do what I want." She smiled at him, her eyelashes fluttering just a little, in what under normal circumstances would be a very flirtatious look, but this was far from normal. "I can be real nice," she said softly.

Mark swallowed, trying not to dwell on what he'd done that she wanted, apart from just lie there, chained to the bed and. . . . He stopped himself, didn't let his mind go there, because he didn't know anything, and he didn't want to know. He forced himself to meet and hold her gaze, forced himself to assess his position. His left hand still handcuffed to the bed frame left him next to helpless. He was disoriented, weak, fairly certain that it had been 24 hours since he'd eaten or drunk anything, and he was at the mercy of a crazy woman that he knew was capable of cold-blooded murder. He licked dry lips. "What do you want?" he asked quietly, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded.

Melissa smiled, and sat back, her eyes drifting up wistfully. "What do I Want? Why I want a little house in Mexico, with a parlour and a big kitchen and a sewing room, a handsome husband to take care of me. Two chubby children and a dog running around in the yard, and enough money so that I don't have to worry none." She looked back down at him. "Just what every girl wants," she paused for a moment holding his gaze, "And you're going to help me to get it." Her expression became a little more serious. "I had all the money I needed, and you took it away from me. So you're going to help me get it back."

Mark stared for a moment, somehow ignoring the twisted logic that led her to believe that he had lost her money. Instead he concentrated on what she wanted him to do. He shook his head. He'd gotten so used to everyone knowing that he had a record, and assuming the worst of him because of it that there was only one logical conclusion from her statement. "If you think I'm going to help you rob people, rob banks. . ." He stopped. Melissa's expression was one of puzzlement.

"Now why would I want y'all to do that?" she asked. "You and your judge friend lost me my money. So now you're going to pay it back." She moved over to the dresser and picked up her gun. "He's going to give me back my fifty thousand dollars," she pointed the gun at his chest. "Or I'm going to shoot you."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	6. Realisations

Author's note:- OK I'm posting this mainly so you know I haven't given up on this story. I've been ridiculously busy but I'm just about to head off on holiday so I should have a lot to post when I get back- Who knows it may even be finished?!? Hope you like- Let me know- J

Chapter 6:- Realisation

Mark stared for a moment, not at the gun, his brain somehow ignored that threat, not that ever looking down the barrel of a gun didn't have an accompanying frisson of fear, but his consciousness didn't even recognise it, although if anyone had been checking they might have noticed his heart rate and breathing kick up a notch and the thin sheen of sweat that already coated his skin increase slightly, but his focus wasn't on that, his focus was on a concept. The idea that Hardcastle could and would come up with a $50 000 ransom for him. For a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, didn't know how to sort his way through a mess of tumbling thoughts and emotional concepts that he was in too much of a mess to handle, that he probably couldn't handle on his best day, and this definitely wasn't his best day.

Mark concentrated on the practical first. It was easier. Did Hardcastle have that sort of money? Sure he owned Gull's Way but for all Mark knew that could be mortgaged to the hilt. He thought not, but he didn't know. Hardcastle had been brought up hard and poor, and that made him very careful. He rarely spent frivolously, heck he often didn't spend on the essentials, but whether that was because he didn't have it or he just never got used to the idea that he didn't have to watch every cent, Mark wasn't sure. He'd always assumed the latter but. . .and fifty thousand dollars. . .for you?

He shook his head. "Hardcastle wouldn't give fifty cents for me," he stated, not entirely faking the bitter tone. He was pretty sure that there were a lot of things the judge would do for him. Even in his almost entirely negative frame of mind, he couldn't believe that the Judge would just abandon him, but that much money? He shook his head. "I don't know what you think I am to him, but I'm just his handyman and gardener. Trust me he'll just find someone else to cut his lawns and trim his hedges."

Melissa stared at him momentarily uncertain, then she took a step forward, the barrel of the gun dropped slightly but it was still pointed squarely at him. "No," she gave a small smile, "I saw the two of you together. He cares about you, if you're not related then you're the kid he never had, or somethin'." She thought for a little longer stepping further towards the bed until her legs were leaning against it, her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. "Or maybe there's somethin' else goin' on between you two. I heard about that sort of thing." She half turned to sit touching his hip, her free hand moving to allow her fingers to dance along his waistband. "Is that why you don't find me attractive, because you prefer. . ."

Mark blushed a fiery red as his mind caught up with the implication. "No!" he protested "No, I. . ." He wasn't sure how to continue, how to word the denial of something so ridiculous, something so unthinkable. He changed tacks. If he just explained their relationship then. . ."The judge and I we just. . ."

"So you do like women then?" Melissa asked, her hand moving from his waistband to caress the bare flesh of his stomach.

"Yes, I. . ." He tried to clear his thoughts again, tried to keep up with the changes in sensation, in questions, in information, tried to consolidate the incongruity of the caresses and the smiles, with the gun and the threats.

She was moving forward now, leaning, her soft clothing tickling his chest as she moved upwards, her face to his, the gun sticking firmly in his ribs; its threat, its power not diminishing. "Then kiss me," she said softly, her lips brushing his. Warm and sweet they pressed down harder and when he did not respond the gun jammed a little deeper into the soft flesh just below his ribcage. "Kiss me," she demanded, hot breath, exploding over his face, and this time when she moved in he let her, allowed her tongue to slip between his lips and teeth, melted into the moment as his body responded and his mind split, because he was helpless to stop her, not sure that all of him wanted to because it was better than the fear and better than the pain. No, that wasn't right he didn't want this. He couldn't. . . He tried to pull his head away, to turn it. "Please," he said softly when she broke for breath, and she sat up grinning contentedly at him.

"I'd love to stay," Melissa said, relishing the look of confusion, the fear on her captive's face. The power she had over him was intoxicating, better than with poor old Arvin Lee, better than with her husband. "But I have a phone call to go make."

Mark shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. "It won't do any good, even if he would give it to you," 'for me,' the thought drowned softly in a confusion of want and need. He licked dry lips. "The Judge doesn't have that kind of money," he asserted.

Melissa made a sound that might have passed for a giggle. "You drive race cars, you own the nicest car I ever saw, soft leather seats and a fancy engine. You live on a big estate by the ocean," she shifted the gun once more so that it dug in high up on his abdomen. "You want me to believe that you don't got money?" She pushed harder on the gun putting her weight behind it, forcing Mark to expel a little more air as he winced from the pain. "Hardcastle's got money all right, and he's gonna give some of it to me," she twisted the gun round grinding it forward, "or at least you'd better hope he will."

Mark struggled to take a breath against the knife like pressure as she pushed in and up under his already bruised rib cage. His thoughts were bouncing in a jumble, just out of reach as the pain drew all of his focus

She eased off again, sitting back. "I don't want no big estate, I just want a little house of my own, and I don't think that's too much to ask. Do you?"

The next line that Mark uttered would have made the judge proud, if he'd heard it. It came from deep within, a core belief, and was probably the thinking that separated Mark from most of the people he'd been in Quentin with. "Not if you do something to earn it," he stated.

"Oh but I did," Melissa stood, moving to put the gun down on the other side of the room. "All that time I spent with Sheriff Blackstone, all that work with Arvin Lee. We worked hard to get that money." She turned abruptly and stared at him for a moment, clearly deciding something, as her mood shifted.

She walked back to the bed. "Now I need you to be good for me while I'm out, but I'm not sure that I can trust you." She grabbed the free wrist of his injured arm in a two handed grip and forced it back above his head.

The move was unexpected, at least in the state Mark was in. If he'd realised straight away he might have had the strength and the position to resist a little, but even that was doubtful with the treatment the already infected injury had had in the last twelve hours. With no warning and no resistance the damaged flesh and torn muscle screamed in protest at the violent treatment and Mark joined in, his face contorting in pain, his body curling in reflex as white hot spikes radiated out from his shoulder.

Melissa watched fascinated, relishing once again, the feeling of control the feeling of power. She waited for his muscles to relax, for the lines on his face to ease off a little, his breathing calming again and then she pushed his arm back sharply, as far as it would go. He winced again, his muscles tensing as the pain hit. This time he bit the inside of his mouth to avoid crying out. Melissa smiled widely, elated by the reaction she'd caused. She'd never realised before just how enjoyable it was to just inflict pain.

She'd killed; she knew she enjoyed that. When her daddy used to take her hunting she used to love watching the creatures fall, knowing that they had been breathing and moving moments before, and she was the one who had stopped that, but injured animals had always been dispatched quickly, she'd never got to just watch them react to the pain, pain that she was inflicting. It was delicious.

She clipped the cuff quickly and tightly round Mark's wrist and climbed onto the bed to kneel beside him, waiting for him to get his breathing under control again. He turned his head to look up at her and she smiled down at him.

Mark caught the look and his blood froze. He had seen it before, in prison, had seen it on the faces of those who enjoyed the suffering and pain of others. To this moment he'd had Melissa pegged as crazy, but he hadn't quite put her in the psychopath category. Her look changed that; she was _enjoying_ hurting him. "Please," he said, knowing that it would do no good but he had to try to get her to. . . The pain this time blanked his thoughts as his body scrambled fruitlessly to escape it, his arm muscles tensed pulling on the cuffs as the tension tried to rip his hands through the too small opening, and once more he could not stifle the scream.

Melissa pressed harder into the wound, keeping up the pressure as Mark desperately scrabbled to move away from it but his movements were uncoordinated, ineffective, there was no way to escape the relentless burning pressure until his brain overloaded and he passed out. Melissa watched him go limp, finally pulling her hand away, her head dropping backwards as she drew in a huge satisfied sigh. She stared for a moment at the ceiling allowing the waves of pleasure to wash through her system before dropping off the bed onto her feet.

She stood for a moment watching him, then gently brushed his sweat soaked hair from his face. "Now be good whilst I'm away, and I'm sure we'll have some more fun later." She turned with a flounce and grabbed her purse heading for the door.

H&MCH&MC

Hardcastle had never been good at sitting around and waiting. It wasn't the sitting part, after all that had been a large part of his job for over twenty years. No, it was the waiting that got to him, especially when things really needed to be done. In his courtroom he'd always had a certain level of control and intellectual stimulation to compensate for the lack of physical action. Any waiting in there had always been other people waiting for him, but since he'd retired he'd gotten used to doing again.

Inaction grated, allowed thoughts and fears to the surface that he could pretend he didn't have time for when he was doing something.

Those thoughts and fears consumed him now, because he was sure that McCormick was in trouble, and was equally sure that the only course of action he could follow was sit here and wait and worry and. . . .He slammed the edge of his fist onto the desk in frustration, allowing the emotion to morph into anger because it was so much easier to express, so much easier to deal with.

He checked his watch for the millionth time that morning and considered making more phonecalls, but he'd already left his number with everyone he thought might know anything, and they had all promised to call him if they heard anything at all. He was in no doubt that they would, many were friends of his and, although he tried to hide it, he knew they'd picked up on the increasing levels of desperation in his tone.

He picked up a pen and tapped it absently on the desk, he'd already tried to read, and given up on, the morning paper, after reading the same paragraph three times and still having no clue what it said.

Dammit! He needed to do something, maybe more coffee? He stood picking up his cup and realised it was still half full from the last batch he'd made and failed to drink. He put the cup down and sank back into his chair picking up the pen again. He stared across the room and caught site of the maps still spread across the coffee table. It wouldn't hurt to take one more look at them, he stood moving round the desk, maybe he could figure out. . . .

The phone rang loud and clear, stopping him in his tracks.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	7. Two Rings

Author's note: OK slightly longer chapter for you. Hope you like it J

**Chapter 7: Two Rings**

Hardcastle stared for two rings. Two rings of inaction as his gut tightened and adrenaline rushed through his system. The only calls he was expecting were about McCormick, and much as he wanted to know, needed to know what had happened to him, there was a part of him now that hesitated, that thought maybe no news was better than confirmation of something bad, and his gut had been telling him since the day before that it was something bad. Perhaps ignorance was bliss, perhaps, maybe. . . No! The frustration bit off the thought before he could get any further. He needed to know. He snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Judge Hardcastle?" the female voice at the other end questioned.

The judge felt a surge of disappointment, and he realised that a part of him had been hoping that it would be McCormick himself with some tale about a flat tyre and a gripe about a twenty mile hike to the nearest phone, explaining his absence with a half apology and asking to be picked up. There had been a little bit of hope there, just a little. He swallowed before replying. "Speaking," he said, as he tried to place the female voice that he heard on the other end of the line. He recognised it, had heard. . . but who. . . "Who is this?" He growled out. It certainly wasn't any of the people he'd asked for help, they were friends, colleagues, people he knew well, but this was triggering more recent memories. Dammit he should know!

"Why Judge, I'm surprised you've forgotten me already." The voice replied with a southern lilt and a half laugh in the tone. "Aftrall it's only been a week."

"Melissa Kantwell!" The memory hit like a punch to the gut as anger surged through him, and he was barely aware that he had spoken the name as well. What in all hell was she doing ringing. . .

"See, you do remember me," Melissa said with an almost childlike glee, "I knew you wouldn't have forgotten, when we had so much fun an all. . ."

"Fun. . . ?" the judge spat the word through his anger. "You tried to kill me, you shot my associate, you stole his money, his car. . ."

"And what a beautiful car that is too, real leather seats and an engine that just purrs. . ."

The Judge took a deep breath to calm himself. Melissa was clearly trying to push his buttons, or she was genuinely insane, either way his anger was just playing into her hands. She was enjoying it. "Crimes for which you're going to rot in jail," he said, attempting to bring the conversation back under his own terms.

"I don't think so," Melissa said softly. "I'm not in jail now."

"I know," Hardcastle stated flatly, "but there are three police forces who don't intend to let you stay that way, and once you are back inside no one will ever help you again. Everyone will know that you killed the prison guard who helped you. You'll be lucky to ever make it outside maximum security."

The death of the prison guard was another thing the Judge hadn't told McCormick about, they'd found him shot in the back, the day after the escape. It was another reason why the judge hadn't wanted to even get into the conversation with him. The state McCormick was in he probably would have found a way to blame himself for it. At the very least it would have added to the deep despair the kid was feeling, he never took death well, not even when those who died deserved it.

"But Judge I'm not going back to prison," Melissa's tone had taken on a serious harder edge, "And you're going to make sure of that. You're also going to give me the fifty thousand dollars I lost."

"Now why would I. . ." the Judge began, because since he'd recognised her voice he'd been consumed by the anger, his thoughts focussed on her and her crimes. The gnawing anxiety had been pushed to the background. He had forgotten. . .but now it rushed to the surface, gushing out, pouring cold liquid over his skin, the blood draining away in it's path. He'd paused before she interrupted, her chilling words merely confirming what he already knew.

"Because I have your friend," Melissa stated calmly. "I have McCormick, and, if you ever want to see him alive again, you'll do exactly what I say."

H&MCH&MC

Mark shifted and the pain drove him back to a reluctant consciousness with a groan. He drew in a slow deep breath which pulled at bruised ribs. It was the first thing that registered as he blinked bleary eyes open, the pain, his face, his head, his shoulder, God his shoulder. It hurt more than when he'd first been shot. Then the fear hit, like a knife carving an empty hollow in the pit of his stomach, and, for a moment, he ignored the pain as his head shifted around, frantically looking for the source of that fear. It took several moments for him to realise the room was empty apart from him. He was alone. At first it was a good thought, relaxing him, quelling the fear of his tormentor. She wasn't there, wouldn't hurt. . .couldn't confuse. . . Damn why couldn't he keep his thoughts. . .alone. . . lonely. . .hurting. He tugged his hands uselessly in the cuffs, abraded flesh adding its protests to the many other pains that assaulted his overloaded system. Helpless. . . the thought burrowed through the mound of despair that already sat on top of any emotional response to his situation. Helpless. . .powerless. . .it tapped into his worst memories of prison, those times he didn't want to remember, came back to him only in nightmares, because when he was in conscious control he buried them so deep that they couldn't get out. Those times when he'd been stripped of control even of his own most fundamental needs, frightened, hopeless, helpless. . .He couldn't live this again, wouldn't make it. . . couldn't. . .

The pain from his shoulder drew his attention and he tried to shift backwards to get more comfortable but the move just sent fiery spikes running up and down his back and he gasped, all thoughts gone as he focussed on controlling the pain.

H&MCH&MC

"What. . .What have you done to him?" Hardcastle struggled to get the question out through suddenly dry lips as the fear coiled his gut into a mound of knotted tension. Melissa Kantwell was a stone killer, and she had him. . Dear God, she had him.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Melissa repeated ignoring the question. "By six o'clock tonight, and keep the police out of this, or I will kill him."

"How do I know you haven't killed him already?" The Judge asked almost afraid of the answer. "Let me talk to him."

"You'll see him when I have the money." Melissa replied, trying to sound confident.

"No," Hardcastle's own reply was driven by fear and frustration and anger. "I want to speak to him now or you won't get a cent from me, and if you hurt him I will personally hunt you down and. . ."

"If I let you speak to him you'll get me my fifty thousand?" Melissa interrupted, this hadn't been in her plan, not that there was ever much by way of planning in what she did. She just did, she'd let Arvin Lee and her husband take care of most of that, as long as she got what she wanted, she didn't much care how it happened.

"Yes," the judge said, a certain amount of relief flooding his system. If she was going to let him talk to McCormick then at least he was still alive. "Let me talk to him and I'll get you your money."

Melissa considered for a moment, there was a phone in the motel room and she was fairly sure she'd had a good reason for not using it, for walking the quarter mile to this gas station to make her ransom call, but she supposed if she was quick. . .and if it got her her money, then it would be worth it. "Expect my call in an hour," she stated, "and I still want my money by six."

"OK I'll. . ." the line went dead. It was a long moment before the judge moved. He didn't want to wait an hour. He wanted to speak to McCormick now, wanted that reassurance now, not an hour from now, not a minute. . . the hand holding the receiver had dropped to his chest but he still hadn't replaced it. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment letting out a long breath as he tried to quell the bubbling emotions, the spiralling fear and anger and frustration. He didn't have time for this. There were things he had to do, things he needed to get moving on if he was going to save McCormick. He dropped his other hand to disconnect the phone, checking he had a dial tone before punching in a familiar number. "Frank. . ."

H&MCH&MC

McCormick had drifted into a state halfway between sleeping and waking, the pain settling to a level he could almost ignore as long as he didn't move. His thoughts drifted in a sea of fear, not quite registering, not quite not there, his consciousness searching for somewhere safe from this world of nightmares but there was no safety, not here. The sound of the key in the motel room door was enough to pull him back. He turned his head to watch a smiling Melissa enter the room, and cold fear ran down his spine.

She walked to the edge of the bed with a slow swing of her hips, sucking a soda through a straw. She stopped and stared down at him before sitting, and he tried not to flinch away as she dropped down onto the bed beside him. She lowered her drink. "That Judge of yours doesn't trust me," she stated, dropping her free hand to run a finger suggestively up from his abdomen to his chest, grinning wider at the discomfort the action caused her captive.

"He doesn't trust anyone," McCormick tried to distract himself from the soft caress that Melissa used as a weapon.

"Well he seems to think that I've killed you already," she moved her hand round tracing gentle patterns on his skin, running her fingers around the bruises she'd caused when she'd pistol whipped him, following the sharp outlines. "Doesn't he know that would be such a waste."

"Since the first time we met you were going to shoot us both and leave our bodies in the desert, I don't think that's much of a stretch, no" McCormick replied, trying to inject some of his well practiced sarcasm into the comment, but the strain showed clearly in his voice. He was trying hard to ignore the soft touches, but he knew that he couldn't move to escape them, knew that even trying would mean more pain.

Melissa put her drink down and shifted to straddle him again, sitting over the top of his thighs. Her other hand joined the first "Aw that was Arvin Lee, he didn't like you none," She moved her hands round, slowly, softly caressing, losing herself for a moment as they trailed over his muscular torso and then down to his waist. "But I like you." She pushed her hand into the top of his waistband and stopped, staring into his eyes. "I like you a lot."

Mark did his best to quell the rising panic that the unwanted touches brought about. Each time she went a little further, got a little closer to. . .He swallowed hard, registering the blush that was further heating his already fevered skin. "Don't," he said softly, "Please don't. . ." He shook his head, breaking away from her gaze.

Melissa laughed, so much better than teasing Arvin Lee, here she had all the power. She hopped off the bed and picked up her drink. "You know even if the Judge does pay up I may keep you anyway, my own pet race car driver."

NCISNCIS

"Did you have to call in the FBI," the Judge asked Frank Harper as he watched his home being invaded by a seemingly endless stream of black suited men, some carrying equipment.

"You know I did, Milt. We have an escaped bank robber, federal crime, who crossed state lines before killing a prison guard, also a federal crime, and that's before we even get to McCormick's kidnapping. Just count yourself lucky that a couple of these guys owe me a favour and are keeping us in the loop."

Hardcastle wiped his hand across his face. "I know, Frank, I just don't like not being the one calling the shots. I mean what if Mark. . ."

"We'll get him back, Milt," Harper assured his friend. "He's been in tighter spots before."

"I don't know," Hardcastle shook his head. "You haven't met this woman. She's clear Looney Tunes and then some. She could. . ."

"Judge Hardcastle, Lieutenant Harper," Agent John Gorman approached from the front door. "We're all set up on the phone sir," he addressed the Judge directly, "If she keeps to her promise to call back in an hour, she should be calling in a few minutes; hopefully we'll be able to get a trace."

Hardcastle nodded grimly and followed the FBI agent into the house.

H&MCH&MC

Melissa picked up the whole phone and checked the cable, there was plenty. She flicked it out from behind the dresser and carried the phone over to the bed setting it down beside Mark. "Now I want you to tell the judge that you're alive and well," she said, leaning a little over the phone, her hand resting on the receiver. "And don't you get no ideas about letting him know where you are." She moved her other hand across and placed it over his wound. "Because if you do you'll regret it."

"But I don't. . .Mark clamped his mouth shut, breath escaping heavily through his nostrils as he rode out the latest stab of pain as she once again pressed against the torn flesh. He had been trying to tell her that he couldn't tell the Judge where he was because he didn't have a clue, apart from the fact that they were in a motel room somewhere. Didn't she know that he didn't know where they were? He looked up to see the pleasure in her eyes and realised that even if she did know she wouldn't care. It was just another excuse to hurt him for her entertainment. He stared as her lips moved, and it took him a moment to process the fact that she had asked him a question.

"Do you understand?"

He nodded quickly, before she decided his lack of response was another reason to hurt him.

"Good," she smiled, "Then let's give the judge a call."

The judge was sitting at his desk. His phone had been moved so that it sat in front of him. He nervously rubbed his thumb across his other hand, Frank stood just behind him in the window and they both stared at the phone. He knew it was several minutes past the one hour deadline that Melissa had given him, his eyes had flicked up to the clock often enough that he could almost count the seconds, except that each one was ticking by more slowly than normal. He was just about to turn to his friend to express his frustration, his fear that the lack of a call could only mean that McCormick couldn't speak to him because. . .when the phone rang. He let it ring twice again. This time he would have snatched it up straight away but he was waiting for Agent Gorman to give him the signal, and he in turn was waiting for some indication from his technicians that they were ready for the trace.

Gorman placed his hand on the second phone his men had installed and gave a final glance round to check that everyone was ready. He looked at the judge and gave the nod, both men picking up simultaneously. There was a slight click as the tape recorder began recording.

"Hardcastle," the Judge said sharply into the phone.

"Judge," Mark's voice was weak and raspy but still identifiable.

Hardcastle was slightly taken aback. He had expected Melissa to answer, his tone softened instantly. "Hey McCormick, can't let you out of my sight for two minutes without you getting into trouble." If he'd expected a sharp reply he was disappointed.

"S. .sorry Judge, she. . .I. . ." Mark tried to sort through the confusion of things that he wanted to say. Just hearing the Judge's voice sparked a little hope in his soul that he would make it out of this, or never see the man again, never get to tell him how much he meant to him, how much he. . ."

"It's OK McCormick we'll get you out of this," the Judge said, breaking into the obvious confusion, fear driving tears to the edge of forming in his eyes, the kid didn't sound good, didn't sound good at all. What had she done to him? "Are you all right?"

No! Mark's mind screamed, I'm not all right, I'm hurt and I'm scared and I'm trapped and I'm helpless and she's going to hurt me more. Please don't let her, please. . ."I'm. . I'm OK," he answered, barely forming the lie, because a part of him didn't want to admit that truth, didn't want to show weakness to the one man he actually trusted himself to show weakness in front of. Hardcastle sounded worried, he didn't want the Judge to worry; worrying him wouldn't do him any good. Letting him know the truth wouldn't do either of them any good, better to protect him, better to do as Melissa wanted because then she might not hurt him again, might not. . . "Don't worry about me, I'll. . ." The tears almost escaped as Melissa pulled the phone away from him and he lost his connection with hope and sanity.

"I'll call back with the ransom instructions," Melissa stated into the phone. "6 o'clock, and remember no police or else." She looked down at Mark, "Now say goodbye to the Judge." She pushed the earpiece of the phone down hard into his shoulder grinding it in as he let out an agonised yell. Satisfied she dropped the receiver back into its cradle, the Judge's own anguished cry of 'McCormick!' cut off as she did so.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	8. Torture

Author's note:- OK apologies for the taking so long. I took a long time with this chapter for 2 reasons. Firstly my muse deserted me for a while and secondly I found this chapter really difficult to write, but it is necessary to go through this bit to get to the parts that are coming. So I hope you like it. If my muse remains future chapters shouldn't be too long in coming.- p.s. check out the message on my profile.

Chapter 8: Torture 

Frank put his hand on his friend's shoulder, squeezing slightly against the tension. It was a gesture of comfort, of support, and he held it there as he looked up towards agent Gorman, who shook his head.

"Not enough time," there was the slightest of pauses. "I'm sorry; we'll try again when she calls back with the ransom instructions."

The Judge, whose gaze had also switched to the Agent sank back down into his chair. He wasn't sure at what point in the conversation he'd made it to his feet, but he knew the emotions that had driven him there, the same mix of anger and frustration and fear that he'd been feeling since he'd found out that she had him, but now the fear took over. The kid was hurt and hurting, that last pain filled cry. . . He finally felt the soft squeeze on his shoulder, heard the tentative "Milt?" from his friend. He looked up, Frank was radiating concern, he hadn't heard the conversation but he had seen and heard the Judge's response to it.

"She's hurting him Frank," The Judge said softly by way of explanation. There was another squeeze of his shoulder before Frank let go.

"Did he say anything that might give us a clue to where she has him?" Frank asked hopefully, he knew that McCormick was smart, resourceful.

The Judge shook his head, "I don't think so there wasn't time. I. . ." He tried to recall exactly what Mark had said, but all he could hear was the weakness and the fear. He gestured at the recording machine. "Listen to the tape, there might be something."

Frank looked across at Agent Gorman who gave a nod to his technician. It took a few seconds to rewind; by the time it was playing the Judge was staring out of the window.

Frank watched him as he listened. He had already heard the Judge's answers, now he understood his reactions, the knotted tension in his back. Hardcastle visibly flinched this time at Mark's yell of pain. He'd tensed, waited for it, and knowing it was coming somehow made it worse.

As soon as the room went quiet the Judge turned. "There's nothing there," he stated.

"My guys'll get it back to the lab," Agent Gorman said, "See if there's anything in the background."

The Judge nodded distractedly before moving towards the door.

"Milt?" the tentative questioning tone stopped him. He turned to look at Frank.

"I'm going to the bank," he stated, still distracted, "to sort out the ransom" He rubbed his hand absently across his chin. There was a short sigh. "We might need it to get him back." He turned for the door again.

Frank stood for a moment watching his friend. The Judge's usual vibrancy replaced by a posture that made him look every one of his sixty years, an uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders and heavy, almost laboured, steps. It made Frank contemplate what would happen if they didn't get McCormick back. He gave his head a slight shake. The effect on Hardcastle would be devastating. He didn't let the mood hold him. If Milt wasn't able to hold his usual optimism, then he would just have to do it for him. Whatever it took they would get him back. "Hold up," he shouted after the retreating form "I'll come with you."

H&MCH&MC

Melissa grinned as she dropped the receiver back onto the body of the phone and moved to place it on the bedside table, her eyes not straying from McCormick's still writhing form. His movement was futile, an instinctual attempt to try to escape from the pain. She took a breath, watching him was intoxicating. Her head dropped back her gaze leaving him as her eyes defocused, and pleasure chemicals swept through her brain. She savoured the moment, drawing in another deep breath. When she looked down again Mark was watching her, fear and hatred fighting each other, and the pain for control of his expression.

She sat down beside him and moved her hand to caress his cheek, but he flinched away from the touch. "Don't," he said softly, uselessly. She could do whatever she wanted.

Melissa stopped mid movement and stared at him. "OK if that's how you want it," she said, "but just remember that it's your choice." She moved her hand back in to trail her finger gently down the side of his face, "and we've got lots of time to fill 'til I go pick up your ransom." She smiled down at him, pushing herself to her feet. "So if you change your mind. You just let me know." She looked round and grabbed her purse, moving back to the bed before speaking again. "Now I'm just gonna go out and get some things that I need. You don't go nowhere." On the last comment the smile widened to a full-blown grin. No menace, no irony, just amusement at her own joke.

Mark watched her head out of the door, listened to it click shut, and he knew that her absence should bring him some sense of relief, but it didn't. Somehow his anxiety increased in the emptiness of the room. He flexed his arms uselessly. He couldn't reach either one with the other and the frame of the bed was far too strong to give at all. He was trapped, and when Melissa returned, he would have the choice between agonizing pain and soft touches that made his skin crawl in revulsion. She was going to use him for her amusement until she had to go and meet the Judge. His stomach clenched painfully at a stab of increased fear. What if she hurt him too? Killed him and took the money? He pulled futilely at his bonds again; ignoring the pain of chafed wrists, trying hard not to sink further into the despair of helplessness.

H&MCH&MC

Hardcastle drove because he needed to keep his mind focused on something other than the last few despairing seconds of the phone call. It had been a necessary cruelty to record and play it back. The state he'd been in on hearing McCormick's voice, he could have missed something, could have. . . and he hated that weakness in himself. The weakness that allowed emotion to take over from rationality, and logic, and practicality, the weakness that only manifested when you allowed yourself to care deeply for someone, and he did. He cared deeply for McCormick in a way that he would never have expected. The kid had got so far under his skin that the emotional connection had power, and he couldn't deny the good of that power. It provided him with strength and clarity and confidence, someone to share his passions with, to vent his frustrations on, someone who mattered to him and someone to whom he mattered, but under the present circumstances that power was doing damage.

He tried to ignore the churning of his gut and the tension in his shoulders, tried to loosen the white knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel, but his body wasn't cooperating, his mind frequently losing focus as he relived his short conversation, trying to quiet the voice that kept reminding him that it might be the last time he would ever speak to the kid alive. His mind argued the point with itself. They had been in tighter spots, been in greater danger, and they had always come through. So they would this time, but every attempt at a reassuring thought was met with McCormick's cry of pain echoing through it.

H&MCH&MC

Mark woke with a start and hissed in a breath as new pains fired spikes up through his spine and into his brain. He was hot and achy and confused, and his mind didn't want to focus. Caught between the curiosity of wanting to return to the world to find out what was happening, to work out a real escape from this nightmare, and resigning itself to retreating to the deepest darkest corner, to a false escape, hiding from the world of pain and terror inside itself, ignoring the physical world because he could hide where he couldn't be hurt.

If only it was that simple, that logical, if only he had that choice, but it wasn't a choice that he had any control over, any more than he had a choice over what she did to him next.

He blinked open heavy eyes and resigned himself to feeling the pain of the still raw burns. He'd lost count of how many, as the searing heat of the cigarette end, pressing against his flesh, burnt each new raw weal to throb with the others in a mass of exploding nerve endings. He'd ignored her smiles, her pleasure at his pain, bit back his screams when he could, and had endured the cruelty until his mind finally overloaded enough for the welcome fall into unconsciousness, but it hadn't been long enough, not nearly long enough.

He turned his head slightly and saw Melissa flicking idly through a magazine looking bored. She hadn't noticed that he was awake and he prayed it stayed that way. He kept as still as he could, controlled his breathing against the pain, but a cramp made him shift and he couldn't completely stifle the gasp as his eyes closed and his head tilted back, muscles tensing. Sure enough when he looked back she was watching him, and a hand clamped down on his chest as she smiled.

Curling her leg from underneath her and closing and discarding the magazine that she was past bored with. She dropped it on the dresser beside her. "Oh good you're awake," she said, drawing out an exaggerated stretch as she raised her hands over her head and yawned. Her arms dropped to her sides and she stared at him again. "Let's play a game."

H&MCH&MC

"Do you want me to help carry that Milt?" Frank asked, more as a way to get the distracted Judge talking than from any expectation that he would accept the offer. From the look on Hardcastle's face the thoughts he was buried in were unpleasant at best and Harper hoped to provide a temporary distraction from his worry. The last half hour had shown him just how frazzled his friend's nerves were, as he demanded that his bank manager find him the money.

"I don't care where it comes from or what you have to sell to get it. I want fifty thousand dollars in small bills and I want it as soon as you can get someone to transfer it from the vault."

"May I ask what the money is for?" Mr Cheems had asked timorously, pushing his sliding glasses back up his nose.

"No you may not," Hardcastle answered his voice gruff, his anger and concern pervaded the room and explained the manager's anxiousness. An angry Milton C. Hardcastle could make men cower without even looking at them, and the Judge was positively glaring at the diminutive man behind the desk.

The manager sat back a little in his chair before recovering. He cleared his throat and looked down at the file open on his desk. "Well you do have considerable assets with the bank we could. . ."

"I told you I don't care how you do it." The Judge leant over, picking up the phone and placing it directly on the open file. "You can authorize the money, yes?"

Mr. Cheems nodded. "Yes, but. . ."

"No buts," the Judge said waving his hand dismissively. He sat back down. "Just do it, sort out the details however you want."

Mr. Cheems hesitated again. "I have to advise you," he tried again speaking hurriedly in the hope that he could get his point across before the Judge interrupted him. "It's really not in your best interests to. . . ."

"No, and it's probably not in my best interests to move all my business to another bank once this is over, but if you don't make that call.. . ."

That threat above all others seemed to do the trick and Mr. Cheems picked up the receiver.

After that it had been like watching a caged animal. Hardcastle had stood and prowled around the room, stopping every so often to tap his foot on the floor in his impatience, and ask again how long it was going to take, whilst Cheems reassured him that things were being done as quickly as was humanly possible. At one point Cheems had tried to make a joke of the fact that the Judge appreciated the need for security since he'd thought to bring his own police officer with him for protection, but the Judge had reacted with only a stony silence. Still it was the one and only time he'd looked over at Frank and acknowledged his presence, just a quick look, a simple short nod, but it was enough to let Frank know that his presence was appreciated and needed, even if it wasn't acknowledged.

Everyone in the room had been relieved when the bag carrying the money had finally arrived. Hardcastle had checked his watch as though he was cutting it fine on his deadline but the truth was the ransom drop was still hours away, too many hours away, too long for McCormick to be in the company of a mad woman, way too long.

"Milt?" Frank spoke a little louder, stopping as he spoke.

Hardcastle got one stride ahead of him before stopping himself and turning to his friend.

"I asked if you wanted any help with that?" he gestured at the heavy sports bag that the Judge was carrying.

Hardcastle looked down at the bag and then back up again. "No, I'm fine I don't. . ." He got that far before he looked in Frank's eyes and saw the real question in them. He knew he wasn't handling this well, knew that if he carried on the way he was going he would be a basket case by the time the ransom call came, but he couldn't help it, for the first time, despite all of the dangerous situations they'd been through together, he really felt like he was in danger of losing McCormick for good, and the thought of never seeing him again, the thought of what Melissa could do to him, was somehow eroding all of his normal fortitude and optimism. His nerves stretched so tight he thought they might snap. He stared at Frank for a moment, he wasn't just worried about McCormick, Frank was worried about him too. The Judge dropped his head forward, closing his eyes briefly as he drew in a deep breath and tried hard to relax some of the tension from his muscles.

When he looked up again he forced a small smile of gratitude. "You don't need to worry about me, Frank, I'll be fine."

"I know that," Frank lied "I just want to know if you want any help with that bag, but if you don't, then. . ."

The Judge looked down at it again. "You, know you're right it is kinda heavy, here. . " He tossed it over to Frank who caught it against his chest with a slight groan as air was forced out of his lungs. It was symbolic, and both men recognized it's true meaning although it was never expressed in words.

Frank lowered the bag to his side, gripping the handle firmly as he watched a little of the tension drain from his friend. For the first time since he'd arrived that morning, Frank felt that he was finally being allowed to share some of the burden of concern.

"Come on," Milt said, "We should really get back to the house in case she makes that next phone call."

Frank nodded and as they moved off he shifted the awkward bulky bag to his other hand. "You know if I'd known it was this heavy I don't think I'd have volunteered to carry it," he grumbled.

The Judge turned to look at him, grateful to have such a good friend around to give the support he needed. "Oh yes you would," he stated.

H&MCH&MC

CLICK.

Mark's world froze in that click. His heart stopped, his breath chocked in his throat, his hot skin replaced by blocks of ice, every muscle tensed simultaneously and held, just past the edge of pain, of nightmare cramps that a terrified, petrified brain could not even register, because time was not moving forwards. There was no time, the moment hung, the instant held on the edge of death and the affirmation of life, nothing and then. . .everything.

Mark's brain overloaded with sensation, a world of contrasts, pain and pleasure, terror and relief, blood thudded though arteries and veins, with pulsing intensity, flooding his system with adrenaline and natural endorphins. Every sense grew stronger, he could feel every inch of his skin, every brush of air, every slight rub of cloth, nerves exploded, colours brightened. Time started again but he couldn't move couldn't react, confusion reigned, and then the terror cut back in, overwhelming everything else, and now the only thing he could feel was the muzzle of the revolver pressed against his forehead, and it finally registered that the chamber had been empty this time, that he wasn't dead. He looked up into the smiling face of his tormentor, and for just an instant he wished that it hadn't, then all of this would be over, and she wouldn't be able to do this to him anymore.

Melissa sat back and gave a slight chuckle, pulling the revolver away for a moment and staring at it. The rush she had gained from pulling the trigger was unequalled, to be this close, to have life and death in her hands, and yet also trusting to fate, the roll of a dice, the spin of a cylinder deciding the outcome. The realization that the outcome was irrelevant to the emotions of her captive, just the belief that he might die was enough to allow her to taste the fear in the air around him. This made the whole killing experience like drinking a fine wine or expensive champagne, small sips of ecstasy until you were completely intoxicated. "Oh that was good." Melissa dragged out the last word, running her finger along the barrel. "Shall we try that again?"

Part of Mark wanted to protest, wanted to try begging her to stop, but he knew it wouldn't work, knew that there was nothing he could do or say that would end this with anything other than his death. Hell, begging would probably just mean that she would enjoy it more. It was strange, earlier he'd been able to beg for his dignity, but he couldn't do the same for his life. Instead he watched in silent terror as she flicked the cylinder and it began to spin.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .


	9. Death

Chapter 9 Death

Author's note:- OK apologies for the long absence but I've been concentrating on writing the auction story that I donated to the STAR for Brian appeal, so I hope you'll all forgive me for that. Secondly I'd like to thank MacGyver and its wonderful writers for getting me out of a minor plotting problem. Thirdly I couldn't resist the seventies/eighties TV show ransom drop location. You'll k now what I mean when you get to it- apologies, or maybe not. If you're writing this should you use the clichés or not? Sounds like a question on a Fan-fiction exam to me. (If you are writing fan fiction set in a different era should you use period clichés or not? - Discuss)

**Chapter 9: Death**

The gun was pressed against Mark's temple again so he had difficulty processing the sound when it came. His brain was expecting a click or a much louder explosion that would be the last sound he ever heard, that's if he heard it. Would there be time? Would it register? The musings that were occupying his panicked mind were interrupted by the sound.

Loud, sharp, he flinched and the muzzle of the gun dug further into the soft skin of his temple. He waited for the pain or for the oblivion, died a thousand more times in the time it took to take a breath, and then the sound, the sharp rapping sound, repeated, and his brain finally acknowledged that it wasn't a gunshot and it wasn't the click of an empty chamber, it was a knocking, like someone knocking on a door. The sounds changed to voices and he couldn't quite make them form into words, couldn't make them make sense.

Voices, that meant there was someone else there, someone who could help him, maybe? Possibly? He raised his head awkwardly, painfully from the pillow, twisting his injured shoulder, scraping abraded wrists in the cuffs, and now he could see the young man who stared down at him. Mark saw shock on the young man's face and he knew that he just had to ask for help, this nightmare was nearly over. He just needed to. . .

The explosion came now, and Mark flinched, pain rippling through his head, the sound so loud that it hurt. He watched in horror as the red blossomed on the young man's chest, watched the expression of shock and pain and the slow motion fall to the ground, twisted to see the body hit the floor, empty eyes staring across the frayed carpeting.

The soft muffled giggle from beside him made him turn to look at Melissa, the gun still in her hand, pointing down at the figure on the floor. "Now that's what I call luck," she said, "lucky for you, unlucky for him." She bent lower and smiled. "That was your bullet."

Mark could barely hear her, his head was still ringing from the shot that had been fired while the gun was too close to his head, but he didn't need to hear for the horror to register. He should be dead, he would be dead but someone else had arrived to die for him. He shifted his gaze back to the body, then back to Melissa. She was still smiling, watching him. Watching the mixture of emotion that crowded Mark's expression, guilt relief, horror, shock, pain, fear each a delicious part of an exuberant mix, that fed the heady power shot that accompanied taking a life.

Reluctantly she tore her gaze away to deal with the mess on the floor, pushing Kyle's feet out of the way she took a quick look out, scanning the rest of the motel and the parking lot for any signs of witnesses, for any movement, but, save for the odd streak of metal passing the trees as cars moved down the nearby interstate, there was nothing. Satisfied she closed the door and leant her back against it, closing her eyes for a moment as she savored the pleasure. Kyle's arrival had been untimely and unwelcome, interrupting her game; she had intended to just keep quiet until she was sure he had left. She hadn't expected him to use his pass key to come in, hadn't known that he'd had complaints about the sounds coming from the room.

He'd let another of the rooms on this block to another couple who didn't want to be seen by casual observers, although for entirely different reasons. The woman had been so freaked by McCormick's cries that she'd forced her partner to check them out again and he hadn't been entirely happy about missing out on his morning of fun. So he'd made sure that Kyle wasn't happy either.

So Kyle had come to find out what was going on. It was all quiet now but from the couple's description it had sounded like someone was being hurt. Kyle had considered just calling the police, if the lady's ex had caught up with them he didn't relish being caught in the middle. Then again he'd bought her story about being afraid of the police, and since it was all quiet now it wouldn't hurt to check it out first would it?

A bullet through the heart was his answer to that question.

Melissa stepped over the body as she made her way back to the bed and picked up the gun, well aware that McCormick was watching her every move she began to load the pistol, this time inserting a bullet into every chamber.

H&MCH&MC

The Judge was on a hair trigger and it didn't help that the agents in his house seemed both aware of that fact and afraid enough of him that they were tiptoeing around him like some kid trying to sneak out after curfew. He knew that he was making them nervous, hell he made people around him nervous on his best day and this wasn't his best day. He was well aware of the fact that he was growling and snapping at people, who didn't deserve either, and he did on occasion do that on purpose, it kept people on their toes kept them sharp, but that wasn't what was happening here. Here he could push people to make mistakes and he couldn't afford for them to make mistakes, not with McCormick's life on the line.

There was a sharp noise to his left and he turned in time to see one of the techs just managing to avoid spilling coffee all over the tape recorder. Dammit, if they weren't trying to sneak around him to avoid. . . He stood and several nervous pairs of eyes looked to him, clearly expecting some kind of admonishment. "I'll be outside, if you need me." He stated and headed for the door.

It was ten minutes before Frank caught up with him. He'd spent that time by the pool, standing on the far edge, looking out across the estate to the ocean beyond. The breeze tugging gently at his thin windbreaker as it sporadically cooled what the sun warmed.

"Don't you have any other cases that you're working today?" The Judge asked without turning to look at his friend. It was his way of acknowledging that he was grateful Frank was still there, although it would have sounded to anyone who didn't know them like he was trying to get rid of him.

Frank focused his own gaze on the magnificent view. "My office'll call me if anything comes up." Frank's version of 'you're welcome,' on a level of communication that only existed amongst those who knew each other very well.

"I told McCormick to get those hedges trimmed." He pointed off to the left. "They're the only ones that are spoiling the look of the place."

Frank looked at the offending row of hedge that was just starting to throw out branches that spoiled the neat line. There was nothing really wrong with it; it would be a good few weeks before it really needed work. "Yeah well he can get to it when we get him back." Frank stated.

Hardcastle finally turned to look at his friend, studying his face for the sincerity behind the remark, needing to draw strength from his friend's optimism. Frank did his best to oblige, did his best to believe that the kid was coming back because he knew Milt needed to believe that too.

The two men held each other's gaze for several long seconds before the Judge turned his gaze back to the view.

H&MCH&MC

Melissa brushed the hair gently back from his forehead, and she might as well have been torturing him some more, because to Mark that's what every touch of hers felt like. The pain was somehow easier to deal with than the gentle lover's caresses. He didn't really have anything left to fight her with, not any more, but he did need to fight. Her being nice to him, soothing him, giving him water to drink, gently cleaning the wounds she had inflicted. It was almost worse than the pain, almost worse than waiting to die, because at least those things gave him reason to fight, and fighting was the only way he was holding on to any semblance of sanity. This gentle kindness was killing him.

She undid the cuff on his injured shoulder, pulled his arm down slowly, stopping when he reacted to the pain of the movement.

"It's OK," she said softly. "It'll only hurt for a little more then it'll be much more comfortable." She rested his arm across his chest, lifting it through a makeshift sling before rubbing cool salve onto his chafed wrist. She moved on to his other wrist. "I'm sorry I can't undo the other handcuff," she said sounding truly regretful, "but if you keep it still I can wrap it and make it feel a whole lot better."

Mark finally found the voice to speak, finally recovered enough from the shock of watching this monster shoot an innocent man in cold blood and gain pleasure from it, from watching her reload the gun with glee, from being convinced that he would be next, from watching her transform from monster to gentle nurse for no apparent reason. She had loaded the gun, watched him for a moment, giggled softly again and then had disappeared to the bathroom, and an entirely different woman had come back into the room. One who seemed to feel sympathy rather than pleasure at his pain, one who tried to help him. Confusion had replaced shock, revulsion had replaced hatred, but there was something he needed to know. "Why?"

"Aw come on sugar, you know if I let off this cuff you'll just do something foolish like try to escape."

Mark shook his head, that wasn't what he needed to ask. "No, why are you being nice to me? Why are you helping me?"

Melissa smiled at him. "Well hadn't you figured that out?" She replied, using her hand to unnecessarily flick the same piece of hair out of the way. "Because I like you of course."

Mark was sweating but every part of him seemed to turn to ice at the comment. His sanity, his destiny was wrapped up in hers. He had thought he had known just how insane she was. He had been wrong. She had no links to reality at all.

Her fingers now ran down the length of his torso, tracing around his arm and then back past his navel and down to the top of his jeans. "When you and I get to Mexico, we're going to get on a lot better, you'll see."

No links to reality at all. He would have cried, except he didn't have the strength for tears.

She stood, "But first I need to get me my fifty thousand dollars. So you just rest, and when I get back we'll have some more fun." She moved to the phone and ripped the cord from the wall, pulling the wire out from the receiver too just to be sure. Then she snatched up her purse. Looking back from the door, she addressed Mark and the corpse in the same manner. "Now you boys be good while I'm gone won't you." She kicked Kyle's feet out of the way and left the room.

H&MCH&MC

The Judge was sitting back at his desk when the call came. He almost couldn't remember what it was like to have anything other than an empty pit where his intestines used to be. As his hand reached for the phone he felt as though that pit were about to swallow him whole. He flushed with a slight embarrassment as he realized that everyone in the room was watching him, watching how shaky his hand was as it reached for the receiver. "Hardcastle," he only got the word out by virtually grunting it into the phone.

"Have you got my money?" Melissa asked, there was the air of a lilting laugh in her voice. She was happy.

"Yes, Dammit now where's McCormick." Again the words were pushed out with a gravely growl as the judge attempted to control his anger.

"My, my we are sounding grumpy aren't we Judge, and I don't think I like that. Now ask nice and I'll tell you where to bring the money."

Hardcastle's grip tightened on the phone as he forced the emotion down. "Ok, Melissa, please," he managed to get the word out, just, "tell me. Where do you want me to bring the money?"

"That's better," Melissa smiled again, relishing the control, she could almost taste how he was fighting his own emotions, forcing himself to be nice despite hating her with every fibre of his being, and she was controlling that, just her. She gave him the address, it was a drive in movie theatre, deserted during the day and perfect for her to watch, to see if he followed her instruction to come alone or not. She hoped he did. She was looking forward to killing him, and she was looking forward even more to telling McCormick what she had done.

H&MCH&MC

Mark wanted to give up, wanted to retreat to a place in his head where the fear and the pain couldn't reach him, but he couldn't. He knew that he couldn't, not while the Judge was in danger, not while there was a chance, however slight, that he might be able to do something about it, but that chance depended on him being able to get out of here. He looked around, desperately searching for anything that he might be able to use to pick the lock. Think, McCormick, think, he willed his brain to ignore the churning emotions and random thoughts that kept trying to steal his concentration. Thoughts of kidnap and torture and pain, musings about the life of the man who now lay dead at the foot of his bed, the man who had taken his bullet, all of them tried to distract him, tried to stop him from. . .the light bulb! The irony of the imagery actually managed to penetrate. A cartoon image of himself with a light bulb appearing above his head, the breakthrough idea that he needed to get out of this and it was literally a light bulb.

His eyes fixed on the bedside lamp. With difficulty he pushed himself to a near sitting position so that he could reach for the lamp with minimum stress to his shoulder. Every move took an act of will to fight against the pain. It seemed to take forever, hoarse grunts escaping from him at almost every move, but eventually he had the lamp, had the bulb unscrewed, all he had to do now was break it. He hit it against the corner of the bedside table, and almost cried at his own weakness as the action did nothing, he couldn't even shatter a bulb. A well of despair opened up before him and he only narrowly avoided diving into it. Not falling, hell that would be too easy, denying his own culpability, something the Judge said he always did. No this would be a headlong dive because he was so worthless, so useless that he couldn't even. . . He managed to pull back from the brink of the spiral. No! He couldn't afford to go there, not now, he had to save the judge, had to stop Melissa. The thought of her was enough, injured shoulder or no, he cracked the light bulb down hard and the glass shattered. Then he shifted around struggling to move his injured shoulder so that he could reach his still handcuffed hand. He pulled out the piece of wire that he needed from the shattered remains of the bulb and went to work on the lock.

H&MCH&MC

The judge drove slowly to the middle of the lot, avoiding the speaker posts that stood out of the ground at regular intervals. Melissa was already there, waiting for him, McCormick's bright red car sitting ostentatiously in the middle of a row, right in front of the giant screen. He was thirty yards away before he confirmed that McCormick wasn't with her, she was standing by the driver's door, the passenger side was empty. One of the advantages or maybe disadvantages of the Coyote was that there was no room to conceal anything, what you saw was pretty much what you got. Of course that didn't mean she didn't have him somewhere close.

"Stay back for now, but she appears to be alone," Hardcastle spoke into the concealed microphone that was taped to his chest. He parked up and watched her for a few moments before climbing out of the car, regulation, bland, black FBI issue, but it served its purpose. He stood behind the open door, watching as Melissa continued to retouch her make-up, all but ignoring him. She came across as ridiculously dumb, and he had to keep reminding himself just how dangerous she was, how many people were dead because of her. Finally she turned.

"You got my money?" she asked, finishing off her lipstick before closing the compact and slowly twisting the lipstick back down into its holder.

"Where's McCormick?" he countered

She slipped the lid back on to the lipstick and dropped it into her purse. "Safe," she stated, "and as soon as I have my money and I'm clear of here I'll tell you where he's at."

Hardcastle had been a judge long enough that he could tell when someone was lying to him, even a psychotic killer, or maybe especially a psychotic killer, either way he knew Melissa was lying to him now. What he couldn't tell was whether the lie was because McCormick was already dead. He swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat. "It's in the back," he stated evenly, closing the driver's door and stepping backwards towards the rear of the car. He pulled open the rear door and reached for the bag, forcing his eyes not to meet Frank's, he couldn't afford to give the slightest indication that he was there, wedged behind the front seats waiting. He lifted the bag out and round, raising his free hand to show that it was empty.

"It's all here," he stated, moving forward and deliberately distracting her from the fact that he left the rear door open. "Fifty thousand dollars." He undid the zip, pulling out a banded wad of bills. "Now where's McCormick?"

Melissa's own hand had disappeared into her purse, reemerging with her gun which she pointed squarely at Hardcastle.

The judge bristled, it wasn't exactly an unexpected move on her part, but expecting to have a gun pointed at you and actually having one pointed at you were worlds apart, much like anything else, it wasn't real until it happened, and then it could be too real.

Hardcastle licked dry lips. "There's no need for the gun," he stated, for the benefit of Frank and the police marksmen who should have taken up their positions by now. "It's all yours." He dropped the pack of bills back into the bag and held it out for her.

"Bring it here," Melissa instructed, gesturing him forwards with her gun.

The judge walked slowly towards her, watching her, watching him.

"That's far enough," she stopped him about ten feet away, "Now drop the bag." He obliged. "Back up." Again she gestured with the gun.

Hardcastle reversed his steps, not taking his eyes from her face from the gun, even as she bent to check the contents of the bag. He could almost feel the excitement, the glee that radiated from her as she checked band after band, feeling with her hand for the next then the next, taking her eyes off him for just long enough each time to glance down at the bills and confirm that they were real. Each time her eyes left him he contemplated making his move, but she wasn't giving him enough time. If he did it would be a shootout pure and simple, and winning it could mean losing it too. While there was still a chance that she would give him McCormick, he had to play it straight.

Finally she stood, picking up the handles of the bag as she straightened.

"OK, you got what you wanted, now where's McCormick?"

Melissa smiled, "Well that's something you'll never know." She adjusted her aim and squeezed gently on the trigger, killing the Judge, the one who had caused her so much trouble, that was going to be sweeter than all the others. She wanted to savour the moment, she didn't get the chance. She was smiling when she felt the impacts, dull thuds against her torso, one, two; she didn't feel the third one, didn't hear it. The impact with her brain killed her instantly.

For the Judge everything happened too quickly. He saw the moment that her demeanor changed. The moment she was going to kill him and he pulled his own gun, dropping down so that Frank could get a clear shot from behind him. He went for a shoulder shot. He needed her alive so that she could tell him where McCormick was. Frank and the police marksman showed no such consideration, for them the priority was preventing her from killing the Judge and the only sure way to do that was to take her down.

Hardcastle watched her fall, knew that she was dead before she hit the ground, and he stared too stunned to move. Part of him knew that they didn't have a choice, that her death had been inevitable, maybe if they'd had more time to plan, maybe if he'd been in a better state of mind. He should never have let his emotions. . .

"Milt are you OK?"

He felt Frank's hand on his shoulder and realized he was still kneeling on the ground. With effort he pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah," he said, still not able to take his eyes from Melissa's corpse. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry Milt," Frank continued, "She was going to kill you, we didn't have a choice."

Hardcastle turned to look at his friend. "I know," he pinched at the bridge of his nose, as though that would stave off his burgeoning headache, "but that doesn't help us find McCormick."

Frank nodded, "I've got teams sweeping the local area. Why don't we see if she's got anything on her that will help?"

Both men knew that they should wait for the crime scene unit, wait for the coroner, before moving anything, especially since they had both been involved in the shooting, but Frank knew that at that precise moment in time, the Judge, who had hauled officers over the coals for even the most minor of transgressions, didn't give a damn about procedures. The only thing that mattered to him was finding Mark, and Frank couldn't find it in himself to disagree with that stance, so he helped him search.

It was the Judge who found the key, dumping the contents of Melissa's purse unceremoniously on the ground. The name of the motel was embossed in gold on the orange plastic along with the room number.

H&MCH&MC

Reluctantly Hardcastle had allowed Frank to drive. He had wanted the distraction of something to do, had wanted to drive himself, but distraction was the key word. He couldn't seem to hold his focus properly on the world around him; he kept seeing Melissa fall, kept hearing Mark's scream of pain, kept imagining the worst. No matter how he tried to cling on to the hope that his friend was still alive, he couldn't get away from that murderous glint of pleasure in Melissa's eye as she'd been about to kill him. She enjoyed killing. She had Mark. Putting two and two together always seemed to make four.

It took him a moment to realize that the car had stopped. Frank was already climbing out on the other side and a uniformed officer had moved up to speak to him. Hardcastle scrambled to catch up. He was out of the car and heading for the motel buildings when Frank blocked his path. He didn't want to stop, didn't want to hear what his friend had to say. He just wanted to find McCormick. He had to get past, had to find McCormick.

Frank grabbed his arms. "Milt," he said sharply. "Milt, stop."

Hardcastle felt the despair envelop him, felt the cold chill wash down over his skin. He knew that the words were coming but until he heard them there was a small amount of denial left. He knew that Frank was trying to protect him, trying to prepare him, before he went in, before he saw. . ."No," he shook his head giving voice to the denial that he wanted to scream.

Frank held his friend's gaze, managing it only because he knew that he had to, knew that he had to be the strong one here. Hardcastle needed him more now than ever to give it to him straight. "They found a body," he stated.

TO BE CONTINUED. . . . .


End file.
